


Scrap Metal

by Scappodaqui, tinzelda



Series: Scraps [2]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Actual 1940s Jokes, Bob Hope - Freeform, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Bucky Barnes Puns, Canon-Typical Violence, Censorship, Dum Dum Dugan Angst, Dum Dum Dugan's Hat: Explained, Epistolary, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Food Metaphors for Sex, Identity Issues, Literal Spam, M/M, Many OCs named Bill, Mutual Pining, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pining, Protective Steve Rogers, SPAM, Scatological Humor from the 1940s, Science Nerd Bucky Barnes, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, WW II Tactics, World War II, puns
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-21
Updated: 2015-09-17
Packaged: 2018-04-16 09:49:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 27
Words: 31,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4620798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui, https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve and Bucky write each other during the war. With more than your usual inclusion of spam & jam sandwiches, chickens, radar-evasion devices, Dum Dum Dugan's hat, and that dumb lunkhead who plays Captain America. Who's that, Steve?  Oh, just some guy I work with.</p><p>Title is a reference, in part, to this scene from <i>The First Avenger</i>--</p><p><b>Bucky:</b> Why are you so keen to fight? There are so many important jobs.<br/><b>Steve:</b> What am I gonna do? Collect scrap metal...<br/><b>Bucky:</b> Yes!<br/><b>Steve Rogers:</b> ...in my little red wagon.<br/><b>Bucky:</b> Why not?</p><p>Note: tinzelda writes Steve's letters; Scappodaqui writes Bucky's.<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Bucky

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Shipping Out](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3656817) by [tinzelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda). 



Dear Steve,

I’m afraid I’m falling asleep while I write this so I’m sorry if it makes no sense. They get us up for reveille at 5:30 in the a.m. and I just always think of how our drill sergeant said, you don’t wanna let the Germans catch you nappin, up and at em! And I wanted to say, but didn’t because I’d have got in trouble, and it would have been really funny, so I’ll say it to you now, what I wanted to say was “Probably the Germans WILL catch us napping, because we’re so darn tired from waking up at the crack of not even what and marching around in circles for hours.” 

But that’s the army for you. You do what they say. And I’m a sergeant now, so some of them have got to do what I say, which is kind of refreshing for once, right, punk?

Some of the training we do is really neat or really scary at the same time. They had us dig deep, deep foxholes and we got in them and they ran tanks over our damn heads. Right over us so we’d see what it sounds like. I tell you what, it’s a lot different from standing under the trolleys. It’s a deep rumble you feel in your bones, but kind of thrilling for all that. I guess we’ll be digging a lot of foxholes.

It’s not so bad really. We’re all doing the same stuff, us guys. and it’s like being on a sports team--well, I guess you don’t know that, but you know what? It’s a little like how it was living together on our own at first, how we got used to it, but for awhile it was ‘don’t leave your socks hanging on the stove to dry out because of that time they caught fire, dammit.’ Which I hope you’re not DOING by the way even if they are nice and warm to get into. I guess I would really like to do that too if it wasn’t so dangerous. Warm socks in the morning. Just to slide into nice and slow. Don’t you like that feeling? It’s kind of cold here. I think about our stove a lot. I hope you didn’t break it again. You’d better keep warm.

I wish I could tell you where we were going because you would love it. We’re in England now at XXXXXXXXXX and I should be saying the weather’s fine, but it’s not--it’s pretty dreary.

Oh. I heard a really stupid joke the other day. This old couple in London are in bed and the air raid siren sounds. So, they get up to run out and the husband goes, oh no I forgot my teeth, and the wife goes, what do you think you need them for, what, are the Nazis throwing sandwiches? Though I will be honest if anyone could kill you with a sandwich it is not the Nazis. It is the Brits. When we did a long march the other day what did I find in my lunch box but these two pieces of gray bread you could lose a tooth in and in between just this chunk of Army spam that at least I didn’t lose a thumb trying to crack the can for. And this jelly stuff. They call it spam and jam. I say cram it where the sun don’t shine which let me tell ya Steve it don’t shine a whole lot here in England not that I’m complaining. Someone said the other day they make training this bad so we won’t mind the actual fighting so much, but Dugan, who, now, see he is the circus man I think I will have to tell you about--yes really, he was a Strong Man in an actual Circus. We call him Dum Dum because he always puts his foot in his mouth. Everyone just calls me Bucky. Dum Dum said, that’s bad enough, kid. And I said, come on, like Buck Rogers? Like Buck Weaver? Bucky’s a fine name. For a fine fella, if I do say so myself. I thought you’d get a kick out of that.

Anyway gosh I’m tired, but let me finish. So, Billie Do, that’s Bill Donovan to you thank you, but we call him Billie Do because he’s so eager every time anyone says, ‘You know what,’ he says, ‘‘I do!’. So he says: ‘After all this training the fighting can’t even be half bad.’ And Dum Dum, he was in the Pacific where things got really bad, said, ‘You’re never ready.’ I don’t know why I keep thinking about that. I feel like how could you be ready, right? I mean, I’ve only ever shot a target (even despite being a sharpshooter and all that and now after that training I did, still only a target). I did see a guy who got shot in a training exercise though. He made this gurgling noise. That happens sometimes. Some of us don’t even make it to the fighting, I guess. But that’s war. I don’t know yet though.

Anyway I’m sorry I ended like that I guess I have too much on my mind to sleep yet but I feel better having written you and tomorrow I must remember to write Ma too but please give her a kiss hello from me anyway okay Stevie? 

Okay I don’t want to end that way.  
Dum Dum has quite a mustache. Like a walrus. He’s a character. Do you think I should grow a mustache? I bet that would tickle.

Yours,  
Buck

 

Where were are is so damn beautiful Steve, I wish you could see it sometimes. There are strange things that are so beautiful all around and I don’t know why.

Do you know what they paint a lot of the boats out here in really crazy funny colors? Well, I know you couldn’t see them all, but you could see some. Like these jagged blue and darker blue. One is like a zebra, big bold stripes. And one of the ones we saw when we landed here on the coast of XXXXXXXXXXX is like this crazy Picasso with all the colors mixed up in chunks and you know you told me that didn’t ya? You can imagine it, anyhow. The camoufloors in the Great War they did that too, to confuse the U-boats. You take any classes with that Gorky fella anymore who was all about the art blitz thing? That would be really good. You got that job painting ties at the factory or you doing posters or what? You could paint boats, too, I bet. That’s a lot better than collecting scrap. 

Here is another joke: a lady gets a telegram back from the front saying her husband has disgraced himself in combat, he dropped his gun and he _shot_ himself. Why is that so disgraceful? said the lady. Because that ain’t an ‘o,’ said the telegram dispatcher. 

So fair I ain’t shot myself, Stevie, don’t you worry. Billie Do almost did, though.

I will say we eat a lot of what amounts to the same thing. Oh, boy. Canned beans, too. Imagine how that works out.

We did a night parachute landing! So I got my wings. We all wound up blown all over the place. Dum Dum landed upside down in a tree. It was actually not as funny as you'd think. We were all scared shotless at that point, because we didn't know where Cpt N. or the Lt either had got to; and it was all dark. It’s so much darker here than it ever is in New York. In New York the lights always reach up into the sky like hands sliding up under a black dress: dark and bright and dirty. Don’t you think? 

Here, it was so black when we landed we couldn’t see at all. We wound up just hunkering down most of the night and Dum Dum even caught some shuteye, believe it or not, but I heard gunfire and you know, XXXXXXXXX guns sound different from American? So, I knew it was enemy troops and I went up a damn tree and shot some myself. It was actual shots in the dark, though it was almost dawn by then, so not completely.

Even Dugan said I ought to get a medal for that but I was scared anyhow and just wanted something to do. I thought, what would Steve do? 

You know one beautiful thing? Before we jump out of the planes we throw out these metal gizmos, little pieces all strung together like a lucky charm bracelet with a parachute. They float down so glittering and they confuse the radar somehow. Just little shining bits of metal. See? Collecting scrap can be important. Could of saved my life that night. Please remember that. It is important and anything you do is important in keeping us all safe.

It is exactly like that though, like a lucky charm, except this one WORKS. There are a lot of guys superstitious out here. Sol Bletch has this actual rabbit’s foot he’s been lugging around from Minnesota. I am not particularly superstitious as you know. Though I would like maybe a picture if you want to give me one, maybe a picture of New York, but I won’t keep it too sentimental or anything. I figure, a good luck charm can be bad luck if you lose it or anything.

I miss you. I wish

You know what I miss? I miss the FOOD. I miss ice cream. It is now pretty hot here at least during the day (at night it is always cold no matter what I am finding). I would kill a man for some ice cream. Except I have and still, no dice. No ice, ha ha. I miss how we used to sometimes go out and get an ice cream sundae is what I miss. I miss sundaes. Cold on your lips and tingling on your tongue. And all melting after awhile. And just so sweet your stomach turns over. Like that. That’s what I miss. You know, how we got a sundae by the train stop before I left. That is what I mean all right, only when I come home I would like an even bigger one, with a cherry on top too. 

So now I’m going to go sleep then. I was right. We do dig a lot of fox holes. I’m sorry if dirt got on this letter. That's how it is out here, dirt and stuff gets in everything, but I guess I don’t mind if I get to think about ice cream sometimes, and write you.

Yours,  
Buck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The joke about the sandwiches is from [here](http://someoldjokes.tumblr.com/image/121961194075).  
> -The joke about the guy who 'shot' himself is from [here](http://someoldjokes.tumblr.com/post/114092120005/from-anecdota-americana-1934).  
> -Camoufleurs painted boats in different colors beginning in WW I, to confuse U-boats visually. Although radar in WW II made that theoretically less useful, still, less than 1% of boats painted in such a fashion were sunk during the war, so maybe it was lucky, after all.  
> -The little metal pieces used to confuse radar are known as [chaff](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Chaff_\(countermeasure\)#Second_World_War).  
> -Parachute jumps were pretty dicey. Plenty of jumpers did wind up upside-down in trees, or blown far from their predicted landing sites. It was terrifying and disorganized, apparently.  
> -'That Gorky fella' is [Arshile Gorky](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arshile_Gorky), who taught at the Art Students' League in New York and did research on camouflage and spoke about the 'blitzkrieg art.' He was curious about how camouflage might appear to the colorblind. Who is a colorblind artist who might have taken lessons at the ASL? Oh, Steve Rogers?  
> -Don't even ask about spam & jam sandwiches.  
> -We're using food metaphorically, but a lot of soldiers did spend a lot of time preoccupied with food, especially sweet food--maybe as a result of their high activity level.  
> -It was indeed quite cold in England even during the spring. Bill Blass got pneumonia when he was stationed there as part of the Ghost Army.  
> -Different armies' guns, of different make, did sound different enough to be distinguishable to the trained ear.


	2. Steve

**Sent from New Jersey, spring 1943.**

Dear Bucky,

I hope that you are doing well and that it hasn’t been too rough for you. This is actually the fourth time I’ve tried to write you a letter. I threw out the others before I mailed them because they didn’t say much. It seems like I have too much to tell you and at the same time not much worth telling. I’m used to you pretty much knowing everything that’s going on. You usually know all the little details because you’re around practically all the time, but when I sit down to write to you, none of that day-to-day stuff seems important enough to put in a letter.

There is one thing that’s important. Or it could be if things go the way I hope they will. I may have found a new job, and it’s one that could let me be a lot more useful than I would be staying at home with my little red wagon. It’s not a sure thing yet. As I write this, I’m on a train on my way to—well, I’m not actually sure how much I can tell you. I guess a lot of it is classified. I was so surprised when the guy told me I got the job that I didn’t think to ask many questions. But they did tell me that when I get where I’m going, there will be training for a while before they decide who gets the job.

I’ll let you know more later if I can. In the mean time, keep your fingers crossed for me. You know how much I want to do something real. Something that will really make a difference. I guess all I can do is try my best and hope that it’s good enough.

I’ve been getting ready for the new job, packing up my things. I went to say goodbye to your folks. They’re fine. Your ma told me she already sent you a couple of letters, so you’ll probably hear from her soon if you haven’t already. There’s not much other news. I guess you will like to hear that I’ve been behaving myself. I haven’t had a single fight since you left. I sure hope you appreciate it, because there have been a couple of times when I had to bite my tongue, sit on my hands, and count to 100 to keep from calling out some jerk.

I meant what I said at the station, about being proud of you. You said you were scared, but you’d be crazy if you weren’t. It wouldn’t be brave to go if you weren’t scared. It was hard to say goodbye to you, especially when I wished so much that I could go with you. It’s awful staying here and feeling useless. But I mean it when I say I’m proud of you. Take care of yourself.

Sincerely, Steve

P.S. Don’t be too brave. Don’t let it make you stupid. (Or any stupider than you already are.)

 

**Sent from New Jersey, spring 1943.**

Dear Bucky,

I hope you are well. I’ve been doing just fine, though wow, have I been busy. This training is keeping me running day and night. I fall into bed at night and sleep like a log. But I haven’t been sick at all, and I really think I’m doing OK. The other guys here—I would only say this to you—are kind of a bunch of lunkheads, so I think I’ve got a shot at the job. I asked the guy in charge and unfortunately I can’t really tell you much at all. It’s classified. But I think there’s a lot of potential for me to really accomplish something here, if they pick me. Like I said, keep your fingers crossed for me.

I’m wondering if you’re still in England or if you’ve been sent somewhere else by now. I’ve been reading the papers, every single page, trying to figure out where you might be headed, but it’s really hard to guess.

I got a really nice surprise in the mail today. Your mother sent me a note and a pair of socks she knitted. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised at her doing something like that, because she has always been kind to me, and even more so since my mother died. It hasn’t gotten all that cold yet where I am, but I’m sure there will be a day all too soon when I’m really happy to have them. You know how I’m always cold.

Your mother’s note had some news about Dolores Macintire. Do you remember her? Your mother said she wouldn’t mention it to you, but I know you and Dolores were never serious about each other. Apparently Charlie Breslin proposed to her the same day he got his draft notice. They got married in the courthouse three days before he left for basic. Her parents had a little party afterward, and his parents paid for them to go to the Jersey shore for a couple of days as a honeymoon. Then Charlie had to go, and now Dolores is thinking about training as a nurse.

It’s hard to imagine a girl you used to take out dancing as somebody’s wife. It’s even harder to imagine Charlie doing anything as grown-up as getting married. He’s always been such a screwball. Though I probably just think that because I still feel like a kid too. Maybe that’s why I’m so set on getting this job. They’re going to make their decision over the next couple of days, and my stomach is in knots about it. I know you think I have something to prove, and maybe I do, but I think it’s only to myself. I don’t know what I’ll do if I don’t get it and they just send me home. But don’t worry about me. You know I’ll find something else if this doesn’t work out.

I keep hoping for a letter from you. I know you’re writing, and I’ve heard it takes weeks for letters to get through. But I really want to hear how you’re doing and what it’s like over there. I hope you’re taking care of yourself. Write when you can.

Yours truly,  
Steve

 

**Sent from New Jersey, spring 1943.**

Dear Bucky,

I was so happy to get your letter I can’t even tell you. I’m relieved to know that you’re OK and interested to hear what things are like over there. I think about you all the time, wondering how you’re doing and what you’re doing. If you got my letters you know that I’ve got a new job that lets me feel like I’m at least helping, but it’s not like being over there. I still wish I could be, so I could at least keep you out of trouble. That’s not fair though—most of the time it’s you keeping me out of trouble, isn’t it?

I liked reading your letter. I’ve read over and over actually. It seems like you’re talking to me when I read it. I wish I could write like that. Somehow, when I sit down to write to you, I feel like I’m writing a composition for school, like the teacher is going to correct my grammar. I should know that I don’t have to be formal with you, but I can’t seem to help it.

I did go to see your folks before I left. Your dad is proud of you. Your ma is too, and she didn’t say anything, but I could tell she’s more worried than he is. She’s fine though. You know she’s strong. I don’t want you to worry about her. The girls are fine too. They showed me your letters to them and talked about you, and I know they miss you and are worried about you, but they’re still kids. The next minute they were talking about school and their friends. So don’t worry about the girls either. They’re OK.

Thanks again for your letter. I love hearing the details about your training, the men you’re working with, and the things you’re seeing. There’s so much I can’t tell you, so I won’t even try, just to have it censored out. I can tell you one kind of funny story though. It’s about one of the people I hope to work with.

She’s not my boss exactly, but kind of an assistant to the man who would be my boss if I get the job I want. She’s really beautiful and elegant (so of course, I stick my foot in my mouth every time I talk to her), and the first time I saw her, she made quite an impression. She’s from England, and when the lunkheads in my training group heard her talking, the worst one of the bunch started to give her some lip. She stayed cool as a cucumber though—just let him dig himself in deeper, getting fresher, until she hauled off and socked him right in the nose. She knocked him clean off his feet, and he’s an awfully big lunkhead. She’s something else. Maybe that gives you an idea of why I want this job so much. All the folks I’d be working with are exceptional—good at what they do and interesting too.

The training keeps dragging on. I can really sympathize with you about getting up at the crack of dawn, because we’re up early too. We usually get at least an hour of work in before we even get breakfast. I don’t mind it though. (I feel a little bad even mentioning it, because even though I’m working hard all day, at least I get a hot shower and a warm bed at night.) I think I really am improving. I don’t think it’s crazy for me to think that I’ve got a shot at this.

So you like being a sergeant and telling people what to do? Why doesn’t that surprise me? You always think you know best. Just because you’re usually right, that doesn’t make it any less annoying. But don’t get too used to it, because I intend to go right on ignoring you.

You with a mustache, huh? I can’t even imagine it, though the thought gives me a smile a mile wide. I don’t think the big walrus type would suit you though. Maybe something like Clark Gable? I guess if I could see your ugly mug in person I probably wouldn’t even notice if you had muttonchops because I’d be so glad to see for myself that you were all in one piece. Take care of yourself, pal.

Yours truly,  
Steve


	3. Bucky

Steve! 

I got three of your letters. You didn’t get my second one I guess that’s good I think I got a little bit nuts in that and started talking about ice cream? Anyhow you have a job! That’s amazing and of course you don’t have to worry, you're not just a kid. Honestly, you are less just a kid than I am. Even being here I sometimes think I don’t take things seriously enough though I'm trying to be just exactly brave enough but not too brave as instructed Rogers, yes sir. I'm very glad that you haven’t been getting into fights. Honestly, there's enough of fighting going around right now. Also whatever your job is I hope you're not TOO beat doing it.

That lady you want to work with sounds dynamite if possibly a bad influence what with decking people and all. Do you need more encouragement along those lines really? What kind of job is this? More details would be good if you can give them I am very curious here. I have to be honest I spend a lot of time wondering and imagining what you are up to while we march around out here because even if we are worried about Jerry on our tails all the time (and even afraid to light cigarettes outside at night because of how far away you can see the match flare, I have shot soldiers who were not careful like that.)

even despite that I get BORED out of my SKULL just marching around and I just spend a lot of time thinking about home. SO that said thank you very much for telling me about Charlie and Dolores and my stupid sisters and Ma and Dad. I know they will be all right. They are all so damn cheerful in their letters you know. They just tell me ‘oh we saw uncle Freddie the other day and HE asked about you’ and I just wonder well, so what did you tell him about _me_? I can’t tell them half the stuff I tell you. 

Or, that I told you. I guess you didn’t get that letter. But don’t worry. I just get scared sometimes and we had a nighttime mission and now it's fine. Anyhow, when I write my parents and all, I just say how swell all the guys in my unit are, which they are, and I put in Dum Dum’s circus stories. (I do not tell them the stories he told me about the rubber girl he worked with who could bend her knees up over her shoulders though I will tell you now, that story even made me blush. Oh boy, I wish I could see your face right now. Just try to imagine this. At some point he said that he had her holding her up with his arms thro her knees and just imagine that. Anyhow he said she just swung back and forth like that all wiggly and not wearing drawers he made this popping face with his mouth in an ‘o’ and his mustache over it and if THAT was just not the PICTURE. I’m going to stop now, because I think the corporal reading these is getting too happy. Hello, there!).

So, I spend a lot of time wondering what you are up to. Anything you tell me would be good. Though, like I said. Maybe I got you bored yourself with the ice cream sundae talk. In which case, I am sorry. Though maybe, with your new job, you are hungry a lot too? Did you ask the lady you work with out to dinner or anything because I guess that would be fine, that would be swell.

Tell me what you see first thing in the morning when you look. I'll tell you what I see right now. We're at base so there are tents all around and this sound of voices like when people picnick in Central Park. All voices. Some people are even playing records, I hear that too. I see the trees around us over and behind the tents, and I see Dum Dum sleeping right next to me in the sun with his hat over the face. I see the flag flying up above it all. I see Billie Do reading HIS letters and I see the sun all bright in the sky burning clouds away. I see water on the grass rising up as mist (it is early. We just had breakfast, the first real hot good food we’ve had in weeks). I see my rifle where I wrapped it all careful in a piece of flannel like a baby after I cleaned it. I thought, maybe I will name my gun, but then I thought that is silly. And I also thought--and this is not silly it is awful--I thought what if I name it, and then I die? It will be like it has a name that lasts longer than me. I don’t want that. It’s just my gun. I’m very good with it and I’m using it for now but it’s not going to be the most important thing forever. It is not the most important thing NOW. The most important thing is me telling you what I see in the morning and me imagining what you see too back in, wherever you are I guess. That is all. Even if YOU have muttonchops. Thank you for comparing me to Clark Gable. Honestly, though, I think I would look terrible with a mustache, but you might look fine. Now I'm imagining that. Like Charlie Chaplin with your baggy pants, too.

Yours,  
Bucky

 

Dear Steve,

Today I learned Becca has a new beau, Joe _Nelson_ apparently the one with the real big glasses who’s scrawnier than you even. That figures, I’m too far away to rough him up a little myself. Will you check in on them for me? I can’t believe she’s sixteen now. Though did you know something, and I won’t name any names now, but it turns out one of the guys in my unit is actually sixteen himself. He pulled a regular old Steve Rogers. You’d never guess, though, he looks fairly grown up, but he told me like a secret while we were sharing a foxhole one night. We have to share a lot because of how hard it is to dig the darn things, and also because we have to stay warm. Like New York in winter only all the time. 

So now I know how all the guys smell. Dum Dum smells like an old couch. Sol Bletch is all nervous sweat all the time and smells like a dog, quite frankly--but a nice little dog that jumps on you all eager and whines a little dog grin. Billie Do will lay an egg that would sear your nose hairs off but then he goes sorry sarge and I have to hide my nose in my armpit and try not to laugh because he’s so damn sincere about everything. 

If you were here, I bet I would smell pencil shavings and hard soap and a smell like new green things. And coffee on your breath. But you aren’t here and there’s no shame in that. There is no shame in it. The guy who is sixteen who is here, he whispered to me: I wanna go home, sarge, I made a mistake. He can’t though. It’s too late. And I said, don’t worry, I’ll keep you safe. But Steve, I’m gonna tell you now, I really regret saying that because there’s no sure thing out here. It’s like tossing a coin every time.

Which by the way, you can’t just go buy things. I did trade some of my chocolate ration away for some peaches the other day. Real, fresh peaches that just melt on your tongue and get sticky juice all over you. Yep--me picking peaches over chocolate. You thought I had always liked chocolate but you were wrong I like peaches with just a little fuzz of hair on them against your teeth before you bite in. That’s a thing I guess I always sort of knew but it feels more real here. I can smell and taste everything more here sometimes almost like getting my mind more clear but then sometimes it feels like my mind is not so much clear as drifting like it isn’t real. I don’t know. Too much time to just think maybe.

It’s not that I WISH I were home. I just THINK about it a lot. There is no shame in that. No shame in it. I guess.

I don’t know if I will send this one let me wait and see if I get another of yours when we meet up with a detachment out here.

Buck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -Story about the 16-year-old soldier based on quite a few real-life anecdotes, including one of a paratrooper whose first landing was on D-Day.  
> 


	4. Steve

**Sent from New Jersey, spring 1943.**

Dear Bucky,

I got the job! I still don’t know exactly what I’ll be doing, and even if I did I couldn’t tell you much about it. But they picked me over all the other guys, and I know I can do this. There’s a little more training and some more things I have to learn, but then I’ll be able to really help with the war effort, or so they tell me. I’m really happy about this, Buck. I feel like I could take on the world.

I got another letter from your mother. She says one of the letters she sent you didn’t get through—it came back to her all torn up. So I’m keeping my fingers crossed that you’re getting at least some of the letters I’m sending. She told me that Johnny Delgrassio was killed in the Pacific. Mr. Delgrassio is closing up shop and moving to Florida to live near his daughter. She and her husband don’t have any interest in taking over the store the way Johnny did. I’m sure your ma didn’t tell you about Johnny. She probably doesn’t like to think about it herself. But I thought you’d want to know.

I sure do miss talking to you. I even miss your terrible sense of humor. Though if you keep it up with those terrible jokes, I’ll probably stop missing it and just be glad I can skip that part when I reread your letter. (I still haven’t gotten another letter from you, so until I do, I just keep reading the first one over and over again.) No, to be honest, even the bad joke makes me smile. So don’t stop.

I’ll have to stop now if I want to get this in the mail today. I still think about you and your mustache and smile. But actually, I think you wouldn’t look like yourself with a mustache, so maybe you’d better not grow one. Take care. I mean it—really take care of yourself.

Yours,  
Steve

 

**Sent from Baltimore, spring 1943.**

Dear Bucky,

Still no new letter from you, and I’d be worried if it weren’t for the fact that your mother got a letter from you dated only about three weeks ago. So I know you’re OK. Also, I’ve been traveling a bit. I didn’t expect that with the new job. It’s turning out to be not at all what I expected. But anyway, now that we’re on our way, we’ll stick to a pretty tight schedule. It should be easier for them to get us our mail when they know where we’ll be ahead of time. I look forward to hearing more from you.

You know, your mother has been very good to me. I get a letter every week. She tells me about what’s going on in with the girls (Lizzie had a piano recital) and a few bits of news about the neighborhood folks (the Browns got a new car after Bill got promoted to foreman). Sometimes she’ll put in a newspaper clipping that she thinks I’ll be interested in. She reminds me to stay warm, keep my feet dry, and make sure I’m getting enough to eat. Most importantly, she tells me if she’s heard from you. I’d rather have a letter from you, of course, but it’s nice to get mail. I answer her letters every week. They’re probably not very interesting letters, but at least your family knows that I’m OK.

I have to tell you—I’m really discouraged about this job. It isn’t at all what I expected. Things changed, and I really can’t tell you about any of it. They tell me my work is still helping. Aw, hell, Buck, I can’t keep it all a secret anymore. I’m working with a USO show. I thought I’d be doing something more important—more directly important, you know? They tell me that bond sales rise significantly in every place we visit, but it really doesn’t seem like it’s all that much of a help. It’s not that the men in charge lied to me exactly, but they didn’t tell the whole truth either and gave up on the original project. Now I have to settle for this. It’s all made me feel like a fool for getting my hopes up, for thinking that I could do something important.

I don’t want to end on that note, but I don’t really have much news. I guess when I can forget about being disappointed, my new job is not so bad. The people are nice. And the work itself isn’t bad either, even if it’s repetitive. We get off the train, find the theater, set up, do a show or two (depending on how big the city is), then pack up and move on to the next town.

Stay safe, Buck. That’s an order.

Sincerely,  
Steve


	5. Bucky

Dear Steve,

It is SO GOOD to get your letters, SO good even though you sound down on yourself LIKE USUAL. Damn it, Steve, you are doing fine, I don’t know why you think you need to do more. Most of the times us soldiers out here are useless too, we do a lot of standing around waiting and such.

I’m sorry to hear you don’t think the job is what you wanted, though. I really am. But let me tell you, we all love the USO shows! You were wondering where I get all my horrible lousy jokes I keep sending you? WELL, let me tell YOU, the other day we got to see Bob Hope!!!! From far away but he knew our company by name and all and called one guy up on the stage because he heard he had distinguished himself in combat. He actually made us all laugh even Lou who can be a hard sell on laughter. 

He starts off with, “welcome, fellow tourists.” Ha, ha. And then he goes “Folks in London are having a terrible time getting powdered eggs, they have to use the old-fashioned kind you crack open.” And then he calls the paratrooper up on stage and congratulates him and asks him how many jumps he’s done and the guy goes, twelve I think, and Hope says, “You _think_?” It’s funny, he says, “I asked another parachuter how many successful jumps he’d done and he said ‘all of them.’” (Which luckily is the case for me as well).

So I tell you Steve the USO shows are pretty big of a deal. Another guy says he got to meet Marlene Dietrich even in the flesh. Me, I want to see the Marx Brothers. So, don’t be down on yourself. I bet you’re meeting real big shots. What are you doing, sets? Or posters or both? Ha ha, you’re not in the chorus flashing your gams, are you? Now those shows are the most popular I will tell you that. Me, though, I kind of prefer Bob Hope, mostly because I can yammer at the other guys all the jokes til they threaten to hide all my underwear before inspection. Which has only happened once. I said, when the Lt. gave me a talking to, I said, “Well sir you see, I used ‘em all up in the field.”

I guess I’m pretty happy. We had a good run before we made it back to base and didn’t lose one man this time and then we got that USO show and your letters. I’m not ashamed to say I keep all the letters I get under my pillow at night. 

Miss you, punk. Write me more. You’re doing fine. I’m taking care of myself like you said but I’ll do better knowing you’re not down on yourself.

Buck

P.S. Dammit though. You’re right. Ma didn’t tell me about Johnny. But I guess that stuff happens. See this is why I’m glad you’re not here...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -All of the Bob Hope routine is authentic.


	6. Steve

Dear Bucky,

Reading your letter made me want ice cream more than I’ve ever wanted ice cream before in my life. When you get back, I’m going to treat you to the biggest sundae you ever had. That’s a promise.

So I guess you can tell I got your letters. I got two at once, actually—the mail caught up with us. I love having something new from you. I think I memorized your first letter, I read it so often. There’s no way I’ll get bored—talk about ice cream or anything you want, and the paper could be covered in dirt, and I’ll be really happy just to hear from you. Thanks for the letter, Buck, really. I was so relieved and happy to hear from you and know that you’re OK.

I’ve been thinking about you and the parachute, and I don’t know what to think. It sounds like it would be pretty amazing, though I guess you can’t see much at night and going into enemy territory would sure take a lot of the fun out of it. I don’t mean to make a joke. I just don’t know what to say, knowing that you’ve actually seen some combat now. I’m worried for you and jealous, all at the same time. I know you’ll be great though, and you’d better be careful! I don’t like to hear you talking about dying, though I guess it would be impossible not to think about it over there. I can see why your gun is so important, and of course you have to take care of it, but you’re not superstitious, remember? Name it just as a joke, if you want, and keep it close, but don’t make it more than it is. It’s just a tool. You’re the important part, your skill and strength and brains.

I actually laughed out loud when I read the part of your letter about me asking Peggy out on a date. Didn’t you see the part where I said I stuck my foot in my mouth every time I talked to her? I could barely get out a sentence that made any sense. She was nice about it though. Even if I wanted to ask her out to dinner or something, I couldn’t—when the job changed, it meant not working with her anymore. There are lots of girls working with the USO show. I think you’d be in heaven, flirting with all those beautiful dames. But I’ve never been any good at that. Plus I think all the girls think of me as some kind of kid brother, and to be honest, there’s not a single one of them that can hold a candle to the one I’ve got my eye on. You know me—I’m stubborn, and once I’ve got my heart set on something, I’m not going to give up without a fight.

You think Peggy is a bad influence on me with her mean right hook, but from what you’re telling me about this Dugan, I think you’ve got a worse influence right there! That stuff about the rubber girl had me blushing so hard my roommate (Bill, another guy who works with the show) said it looked like I was going to catch on fire. He wanted to know what I was reading that made me look like that, but I couldn’t even tell him. My ears are burning again just remembering it. Dugan sounds like a good guy though. You think he’ll be there at your back and help keep you safe? If so, I like him. It seems like he must keep the men in good spirits too, with his stories.

What do I see when I wake up in the morning? Most of the time it’s a hotel room. It usually takes me a few minutes to remember where I am, what city we’re in, because after a while all of the rooms look the same. Sometimes we sleep on a train, and I like that better. I don’t know why I like it better, because I don’t sleep as well with the train swaying and the whistle blowing at every crossing. Maybe it’s because it feels less like wasted time. In a hotel, we’re just sleeping. At least on the train, we’re moving on even while we’re resting.

I guess the only thing out of the ordinary I see when I wake up is Bill’s feet. For some reason, it seems like he always ends up with his feet sticking out of the covers by morning. I don’t know why. It’s not like he’s all that tall. Anyway, he’s not bad to share a room with. He tells a lot of jokes (and some of them are actually funny) and teases the girls—they like him. I’m just glad he’s tidy, unlike some people. I never have to pick his socks up off the floor.

You asked about art classes, and obviously I haven’t been doing any of that! But the traveling I’m doing does mean I have time with my sketchbook. I don’t get time to do any sightseeing—not that I’m complaining (I’m just keeping a list in my head of places we should go after the war)—but I see a lot from the windows of trains, and I’ve been drawing a lot to pass the time. So I don’t have any photos (maybe your mother could send you something), but for now, I’m enclosing a few sketches I did. Just of the city and our neighborhood. And one that should convince you that neither of us should ever grow a mustache.

I’m going to sleep now, and I have a feeling I’m going to dream about ice cream. Or at least I hope I do.

Yours,  
Steve


	7. Bucky

Steve,

You telling me I’m the important part more than my gun made a real lump in my throat. I’m not going to lie. It’s awfully easy to lose track of that out here. I just hope you tell the same thing to yourself. That what matters about you is your grit and stubbornness and thoughtfulness and honesty and you have that even if you don’t have some of the other stuff the U.S. Army wants. Because the war will be over, and then what? Well, then I guess I’ll let you treat me to that sundae. That sounds so, so good. All sweet and cold and hot fudge sauce and soft whipped cream on the top of my lip like a mustache which I did not wind up growing.

Maybe, after all this, we can go on that tour and see the places you’re seeing now. Of course you like being on the train better. You want to be useful. I get it. Me though I do like being back at base. And just lying around and letting the world float by me for once instead of tramping ahead through it. You gotta be easier on yourself, Stevie. Life is life, as Ma says. Life is life.

I’m glad you’re so stubborn sometimes even though sometimes it’s a headache. I guess you do go after what you want, at that. It’s too bad you got tongue-tied around this Peggy though, not to mention the chorus girls, but I know you got your eye on someone special so you keep on with that. I am in the same situation myself so I understand, I think. (Not that there is much opportunity out here for anything, anyhow).

I keep looking at those pictures you drew. I’m afraid I’m going to scuff em up though so I try to be careful and just let my thumbs touch the edge. I showed everyone the one you did of the Navy Yard and also the Chrysler Building and they oohed and ahhed. I showed Dugan the crazy one of me with a big mustache and he laughed and laughed. He said, “See? You couldn’t handle it, kid!” I said “I couldn’t _handlebar_ it.” Then he put his face in his hands all theatrical. You are right. He does keep morale up. Which is funny, because he is also the one who tells us all serious about the realities of the situation and what it was like in the Pacific living in foxholes and getting the shit bombed out of you day and night. I won’t go into detail because this is gonna be a nice letter. I wouldn’t want to make you blush again.

(No, I tell a lie. I'm tickled just imagining it. Your face, reading about the rubber girl. Face! Oy! as Mrs. Rosen said when she used to try to squeeze my cheeks when we went to buy pickles. Oy, face! Though, I will say, these days I have got a little bit skinnier. Not too much I don’t think, we got plenty to eat out here mostly, but I don’t think think she’d go face, oy! right now. I told my ma to send me more candy. She did. So that’s good. In fact I am eating a Baby Ruth even as I write this--but I’m daydreaming about ice cream. Tell you what. Why don’t you go buy yourself a sundae? I’ll pay you back when I get home. Go buy one yourself and really savor it, every lick, and think of me. Okay?)

O just so you know, punk, the army has knocked tidiness right into my dumb skull. I don’t leave my socks around anymore. So there. That’s one good thing come out of this at least, when we board together again I’ll be neat as a damn pin you can count on that, you will have no complaints at all. I will even shine YOUR shoes for a change. How’s THAT sound.

Yours,  
Bucky


	8. Steve

Dear Bucky,

I got two of your letters almost at the same time. I love hearing from you no matter what, but when I get more than one so close together, I almost want to save one for a few days before I read. Try to spread things out, you know. But I can never wait. I want to hear all of your news right away.

Now you know that I’m not at home, so I can’t check on this Joe for you. But I wouldn’t worry about Becca. She’s your sister, after all, and more like you than you think. She’s no shrinking violet. She can take care of herself. I admit I’m a little flattered on behalf of all 98-pound weaklings that she’d pick a skinny boy when she could probably have her pick of any guy out there. She’s beautiful and smart, and I know she can dance because you taught her. All the boys must be taking notice, but she picked Joe.

I hope you’re doing OK out there in the field. Like tossing a coin, huh? I don’t like hearing that. But I don’t think you did a bad thing trying to help that kid feel safer. If it’s all chance anyway, there’s no sense in him worrying over it, other than just enough fear to be careful. And there’s no shame in thinking about home either. That’s what you’re fighting for, after all. I probably shouldn’t talk about it, because I’m here and not over there (you say there’s no shame in it, but I can’t help but feel guilty), but I can’t accept that it’s all chance. Some guys are simply better and stronger, and you’re one of them. You’ll be OK, I know it. But on to happier subjects.

Your talk about the close quarters in fox holes made me laugh. I guess you have to keep your sense of humor.

It’s funny you talk about peaches because the tour just want to Atlanta. I wish I could have sent you some real Georgia peaches. I had a few myself while I was there. There was a house just down the street from the theater that had a peach tree right there in the front yard, and I was walking by one afternoon on an errand and just couldn’t resist. It was a sunny afternoon, and the fruit was all warm from from being in the sun. And it was real sweet too. Probably sweeter than chocolate, like you said.

The South is kind of strange. It really is like a foreign country in some ways. People act so friendly, but I feel a little put off by it, to be honest. At least in New York if someone shows some interest in you, you know they’re probably really interested. Down there, I felt like people were just talking to me to be polite. Especially the girls. Like there was this one dame—Scarlet O’Hara had nothing on her, believe me. Apparently she thought we were flirting, but I barely said a word. I just stood there like a deer trapped in the headlights while she smiled at me and laughed and chattered away. It was kind of unnerving.

We’re going to Florida next. There’s only one show there, but they’re giving us a couple of days off because we’ve been working a lot. Then we’ll have a long train ride north and head through the Midwest.

Wow, Bob Hope! No, our show doesn’t have anyone famous. There are all the girls, and they are great, all so talented. They can all dance and sing. The supposed star of the show is kind of a lunkhead, though I guess he’s nice enough. He means well and tries hard, but he can’t sing or dance. He’s memorized his lines over and over, but he’d get nervous on stage and forget them, so he had to read his lines off cue cards for weeks. I think he got the job just because he could fit the costume.

I keep busy with the show. I do pretty much whatever they tell me to. As you already figured out, I’m drawing and painting quite a bit. There’s a lot that needs to be done, and everyone just works at whatever chores that need doing. It’s kind of nice that way. The guys are careful, but unpacking and packing everything so often means that sets get damaged and need to be fixed and repainted. I do posters too. Once I even painted the skirts of a few of the girls dresses when they got singed by the seamstress’s iron—she couldn’t find any fabric to match to patch them up, so I just mixed up some colors and painted plain white fabric. Luckily it was in the back and didn’t show much. And no, the girls weren’t wearing the dresses when I was painting them! There were on hangers.

While we were in Atlanta, there was one really hot day. A real scorcher. Everyone was marveling at the unseasonable weather. I got a little bit shaky and dizzy and had to sit down at a bench at a bus stop until my legs felt steady. But I think that was because I saw a Good Humor truck, not because of the heat. Thinking about ice cream makes me really hungry. It seems like I’m always hungry these days, and the way you talk about food in your letters just makes me hungrier.

I think about you a lot over there. Take care of yourself.

Yours,  
Steve


	9. Bucky

Dear Steve,

I guess it’ll be more regular getting your letters for awhile. We’re camped out here getting ready for a big battle. I can’t tell you much about it except we have to do some specific training to do with the terrain and all. What that means is that at the end of the day I’m knocked out and so I’m sorry this letter isn’t going to be real poetic. The Major is on our asses pretty hard at the moment. What I mean is things are rough. But not for the moment dangerous. So that’s okay. And I’m doing well with training, it’s just that you know me (us really and maybe you are worse at keeping your mouth shut--well sometimes that ain’t even a bad thing): hard not to be a wise guy sometimes. But as a sergeant I must be an example. 

Anyhow, you said some really smart things in your last letter I got. The one where you’re in Georgia, with the peaches. I’ve seen the crates printed with pictures at the grocery store, Georgia Peaches, and I can’t remember if I ate one. Hey, maybe you’ll see my granma and grandpa back in Indiana if you stop there. Anyway. You’re right about it not really being a coin toss. It’s just hard, frankly, for me to imagine that I’m alive because I’m better than someone else and they’re dead because they’re worse than me. I wish it weren’t like that to begin with. That’s all. So I tell myself little stories in my head, like it’s a coin toss or, “It’s baseball. The cleanest game there is.” Like the old ditty goes, “the cleanest game there is.” Well now, war is NOT the cleanest game there is. It may be the dirtiest. But you’re right. And you’re right about that kid, too. I think it was the best thing for me to reassure him, because it’s like a promise, you know? It means that now I HAVE to do my best keeping him safe; which I am. Helping him out with his rifle for instance now in training because he always forgets one step when it comes to putting the darn thing together. 

I know what you mean about southerners by the way. Lt. Fischer is from Alabama and real correct but he has this little way of squinting at you sometimes. I dunno. That Scarlett O’hara dame sounds like too much. Hell, I know you always had a soft spot for Vivien Leigh. See the girls are interested in you Stevie they are. It’s just too bad you have your eye on someone already is all.

And by the way I know what you mean about picking someone just cause he fits the costume all right! Hell a lot of army officers are JUST LIKE THAT TOO, except it’s worse because they actually lead us in battle. Just picked because they fit the uniform and there they are. I mean listen to this: we were out in an actual war zone and shells were falling and we could hear Stukas up above which is a terrifying sound let me tell you like a wailing shriek of some awful bird--we were in an actual war zone. And this guy comes up. And he’s a real live general I won’t tell you which one obviously. And he says to Dugan, that hat, Private, is not regulation. And well that was the first damn time I was proud of our Lieutenant because guess what he said, after the General left, he said, “Bless his heart, we have a war to win, Dugan, keep your hat on tight and hold onto your gun.”

That was great. That General was giving us a big dose of what we call chickenshit. Not even BULLshit, but smaller and meaner than that, just trying to show he's a big man and failing. 

I do worry about Dugan though. He can be a little reckless I think. Sometimes I make him wear a helmet even tho he grumbles. He may be superstitious himself and the hat like a lucky charm, I don’t really know. There’s some things he doesn’t talk about. 

Speaking of not taking care, why were you dizzy? Was it too hot? I dunno Steve you may be working too hard with all the painting and whatnot though it does sound real interesting and actually amazing how much you get to do. And those chorus girls, uh-huh. Like sisters I bet. (Thank you by the way for what you said about Becca. I do think that’s true. She’s got a bit of a mouth on her don’t we all but she has a good heart. Joe is a good kid apparently. Not too much of a goof in school and has a job too and is set to graduate next year. So says Ma. She’s having him for dinner. I THINK she meant she’s having him OVER for dinner but with Ma, you never know: I hope he’s ready for it.) 

But don’t let yourself get heat stroke or anything. I worry about you, punk. You working yourself sick doesn’t help any of us over here. And if you’re hungry, you better eat, I told you to get that sundae. How come you get to tell me to take care of myself but then you don’t for you? For such a smart guy you sure can be a fathead (also, that was supposed to be funny because you’re skinny, too). But I won’t tease you about that. In fact, like you said, isn’t it real nice that Becca picked a skinny guy too. That must be a Barnes trait. I won’t say more just. I don’t mind is all--that she likes Joe I mean. What I mean is I think they really love each other and his big glasses don’t matter nor how if the war goes on until he’s 18 he’ll likely be 4F on account of them (actually I’m relieved by that).

You’re so smart, though. Of course you thought of that thing with painting the skirts when they’re singed. I feel reassured talking to you about this stuff. You really listen, you don’t just say, oh it’s fine. Some things they aren’t fine. But I’m glad you got to eat a peach too. And I’ll try to keep writing letters even though I’m dog tired and almost even lost my appetite with all this training now. But not quite. Thinking back to that peach, I maybe got it back just now. So read my letters right away Steve and keep writing back. You’re keeping me going here. 

Yours,  
Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The anecdote about the general telling Dugan his hat isn't regulation is based on a real anecdote: a general telling a private his hair wasn't regulation-length. During a battle.  
> -Baseball: "the cleanest game there is." Comes from [a poem](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/1919_World_Series) (scroll down for the Philadelphia Bulletin quote) ironically written the same year as the Black Sox game-throwing scandal. Whoops.  
> 


	10. Steve

Dear Bucky,

I appreciate what you say about not being so hard on myself. I guess my stubbornness just won’t let go. I know I could do more than this, but I don’t know how. I’ll try to make the most of where I am. I’ve seen the numbers, and our stupid show really does make bond sales go up, and I know that’s something. Part of the corny script makes me think of you: about the money from the bonds being “a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun.” So if the stupid stuff I do every day helps keep bullets in your gun and keep you safe, even in a small way, that should be enough for me. I’ll try to remember to think about it like that and not be discouraged.

I feel like a heel, really, to be complaining to you when I’ve got this cushy job. We just had our show in Florida, and we had two days off. I went to the beach. I couldn’t settle, because I kept feeling like I forgot something. Then I realized it was because I’ve never been to the beach in my life without you. The very first time I went, it was when your folks took us to Coney Island right after I turned 8. Do you remember that? We stayed in the water until your mother made us get out because she said my lips were turning blue. And then we were on the sand so long we got sunburned and our skin peeled off for a week.

At the beach in Florida, the water wasn’t cold at all. It was so warm it was like bathwater, and the saltiness made it feel kind of thick. That’s a strange way to describe water, I guess, but that’s how it felt. This is what I mean though—I feel bad complaining that my leisurely swim at the beach wasn’t refreshing enough for my taste when you would probably do just about anything for a hot bath. I’m here sleeping in hotels and eating in nice restaurants while you’re roughing it and eating spam.

Anyway, I didn’t think much of Florida. Maybe we could skip it when we take our trip after the war. Did you mean it though? Would you want to do that? I think it would be great.

You say you’re getting skinnier. I’m actually a little less skinny. It’s probably your fault—reading your letters always leaves me with quite an appetite. I guess when we finally see each other, we’ll both be a little different than we were when we left home. You being tidy, for one thing. I think if you shined my shoes I’d fall over, I’d be so surprised. But really, if we could go back to our old place when this is all over, I’d probably never complain about your dirty socks, even if they were hanging from all the lamps and laying on my pillow, I’d be so happy.

I tried to get myself a sundae like you said, but I don’t get much time to myself here. It takes a whole bunch of people to put on a corny show like this, so it seems like there’s always someone else around. Also, I think I felt a little bad about it. It seemed too self-indulgent to be getting myself a treat like that when you’re over there, under the conditions you have to live with. You and all the other troops, I mean. I’ll try again though, OK? But only if you promise me something. Maybe you can’t get ice cream so easily, but you can imagine it, right? You’ve got a good imagination. So think about that.

Yours very truly,  
Steve

Dear Bucky,

I just sent off a letter yesterday, but I’ve actually got some news this time, so I thought I’d write. I might make it over there after all. We’ve got a tour schedule set up here in the States for almost the next couple of months, but they’re starting to talk about maybe taking the show to Europe after that, so who knows? Maybe you’ll get to see all the pretty chorus girls I’ve been traveling with. I’ve heard rumors about shows in England and XXXXXX where there are a lot of troops stationed. I don’t want to think about you being where a big group of men is because I guess that means a lot of fighting there, but how great would it be if we could see each other?

We’re heading west now. We have a couple of shows in Chicago, one last night and two more. I’m not sure what I think about Chicago. It feels a little like home because it’s a real city, but it’s different too. If someone stuck you down on a street corner you’d know in an instant that you’re not in New York, though I can’t put my finger on why. Last night after the show, I tagged along with a few of the girls when they went to a diner for dinner. And yes, it really was tagging along. It wasn’t a date—they don’t think about me like that, and like we talked about, I already have somebody I’m sweet on.

So on the way back to our hotel after dinner, thunder started rumbling, and the skies opened up. It was pouring like I’ve never seen. We ran and hid in front of a butcher shop where the roof had an overhang. The gutter was overflowing like a waterfall, and the girls kind of ganged up on me and shoved me under it. I was soaked. They thought it was hilarious, though they got drenched too, and it messed up their hair something awful. I was careful to warm up after (it may be almost summer, but that Chicago wind really cuts through wet clothes), and the show’s seamstress made tea for all of us. She’s an older lady, never been married, and she treats us all in a very motherly kind of way. So I didn’t get sick or anything. I’ve actually been doing really well. I haven’t had as much trouble with coughing or anything like that. It’s kind of strange. Maybe I’m just too busy to get sick! Or maybe it’s because I know you’re not here to take care of me. Anyway, this is how things are with the girls. I think I told you before that they tend to treat me like their kid brother, but I don’t mind since I never had any sisters of my own.

Speaking of sisters, your mother said Ruth is almost ready to fail math! Did your ma tell you about that? Maybe because her genius big brother isn’t there to tutor her. But now that everyone knows about it, Becca is going to help her out. I think she’s almost as smart as you, so I’m sure it’ll be fine. And Lizzie sent me a drawing! It was in with your mother’s letter. I didn’t know she liked art, and she’s not half bad for a kid. It’s a picture of your family sitting at the dinner table, and I’m there too between you and your mother. I’m touched that she’d put me in her picture. I’d send it to you so you could see it, but I like it too much. I hope she sends you one too sometime. Sounds like Becca and Joe are still going strong. Hope that’s OK with you.

Your mother said somebody came in and reopened Mr. Delgrassio’s store. She was really happy about it. No more walking five blocks to the grocer! She was also happy that the new owners are a young couple, and the wife is expecting. They’re fixing up the upstairs to live in, so it seems like they’re there to stay. Something good for the neighbors.

So keep your fingers crossed that the brass thinks our little show is good enough to follow the likes of Bob Hope and that I get to see you. I guess it might be hard to get ahold of a couple of dishes of ice cream in the middle of a military camp like that, but maybe we could make do.

I’m sending more sketches so you don’t have to worry about messing up the ones you already have. There’s more where that came from, if you like them.

Yours,  
Steve

Dear Bucky,

I was very happy to get your last letter but not happy to hear you sounding so tired and discouraged. I hope they’re not working you too hard, though I know you can handle whatever they dish out. And if you’re learning what you need to know to stay safe and have the upper hand, then I guess it’s a good thing. And you never need to apologize about your letters. I admit, I like when you get poetic (who knew you had it in you?) but I don’t need that. I just like to hear from you. Even if all you have energy to write is “still here.”

So what on earth does Dugan wear, if not a helmet? He must be crazy to run around with anything else, but I guess I already knew that he’s a little crazy from everything you’ve told me. Between the two of you, I’m surprised you’re not getting into trouble more. You know, I don’t think I ever thought about how hard it would be to just shut up and follow orders. I was so eager to get over there and serve that I guess I didn’t think about what it would really be like. I really admire the way you’re making the best of it and swallowing your pride (and your wise guy remarks) and doing what needs to be done to keep things running smoothly. But I’m glad you’ve got somebody over there who makes you laugh.

I’m laughing at myself a little. That thing I said about getting dizzy—it wasn’t the heat or anything. I was making a joke about the Good Humor truck, like I was so hungry for ice cream I got shaky. But we both know humor isn’t my strong suit. Maybe the joke fell flat because it’s kind of true—I’m hungry all the time, and I keep thinking of ice cream. But I hope by now you got my letter that says how healthy I’ve been. I made it through the rest of spring without my usual sniffles and coughs. I’ve been healthy, and I’ve been taking pretty good care of myself. Scout’s honor. I did sit down after seeing that truck, but it was just to think about ice cream for a while. I wasn’t really feeling bad. I don’t want to you worry about me. You worry about keeping yourself safe.

I’m laughing at myself about Vivien Leigh too. I guess I do have a soft spot for firecracker dames. Peggy was like that. She’s the woman I worked with for a while. Not that she’s like a Southern belle. She wouldn’t flirt or deceive anyone to get what she wanted. She’s a straight shooter. But in her strength and her determination. You’d like her, Buck. If I hadn’t already given my heart away, I guess I might set my sights on someone like her, but I’m happy with how things are, believe me. I do sometimes wish that I could be back at home with the one I really care about, but the anticipation of it is something to go on for a while.

I’m glad that my talk about peaches gave you back a little of your appetite. Now it’s time for strawberries. One of the girls had a visit from her folks, and they brought a big basket of strawberries for everyone. There were sour as can be, but we ate them anyway. Soon they’ll be ripe and sweet though.

We’re heading to California, if you can believe it. I guess there are a lot of strawberries there. I can hardly believe it, but they’re talking about putting our lunkhead of a star into a movie. I can’t imagine how many cue cards he’s going to need for that. Maybe my letters will be full of all the movie stars I meet.

Take care of yourself, Buck. And take your own advice: take it easier on yourself. You’re doing a great thing, a brave thing. I’m sure you’re a fine example to all of your men. It sounds like things are really hard right now, but it’ll be worth it.

Yours,  
Steve


	11. Bucky

Stevie,

Yes, I meant it about going back on the trip. I mean, I miss Brooklyn, but sometimes I want to see new things. Not that I’m not seeing new things, but I know what you mean about not _really_ seeing them. Being at war in a place isn’t the same as actually being a tourist, whatever Bob Hope says to the contrary. Which--he was joking anyhow. That’s his job. To tell the truth but in jokes so we all feel better.

Would it help you feel less guilty if I said that when you describe the seawater to me I can almost feel it myself? And, gosh, hotel room sheets clean and smooth and soft. All that stuff. That’s prime. Imagining it is great, almost as good as being with you myself. You’re right again (it only took a war for each of us to admit the other one’s right, you noticing how much we say that in these letters?). So: I’ll imagine more. Your pictures help. Do one of you? Not just a cartoon I mean. If you want, I mean. I bet I know what you’ll say, you feel guilty looking in a mirror or something. You nut. 

I have to go now but will continue this later when I get back because it’s not long enough for a real letter yet.

I’m back. Gosh, my finger’s all cramped up from so much time on the rifle range. If only you knew how much I do imagine ice cream these days. I guess I can’t blame you for feeling guilty, though, if I really think about it. I hope I haven’t been running my mouth or I guess my fingers too much about how lousy it is around here. It’s not all bad. I mean, when they’re not making us train and swing around in trees like Tarzan or crawl under barbed wire or whatnot, they show us movies projected onto tent screens and such. There are also Red Cross Clubs for dancing or even just a place to talk. And books even, some pulps or science fiction like you know I like (don’t laugh at me, Buck Rogers is amazing, everyone named Bucky is). I can't help but compare our fights to the ones in the science fiction books, though. Boy, would this war be a lot easier with ray guns. Zap! Boom! Done. A lot less cleaning and taking apart rifles for one thing, not that I don't like taking care of my gun, I get very meticulous with it in fact like you with your art.

Also, I think I know what show you’re a part of? Because that exact line about a bullet in the barrel of your best guy’s gun was written up in the back of Yank Magazine. Yep. I’m not kidding you, that is the name of our GI circular, Yank. Sadly, it doesn’t have the kind of material inside you might expect from the name. Anyhow, there’s that ad with the quote and there’s Captain America on it, and there’s a comic with him in it too, socking Hitler in the mouth. Ha ha, is he the same lunkhead from work that Peggy gal slugged herself? 

Speaking of punching people out. A funny thing happened the other night. I saw a couple of soldiers sneaking extra food behind the mess. They didn’t see me passing by at first but I guess I made a noise. They finished up what they were eating--really stuffed it down--but then one of them hauled off and grabbed the other one up by the scruff of his neck and punched him like it was all his fault. I said “sorry” and beat it quick but I don’t know, one of them had a bloody lip and spitting out what he’d been eating and everything and looked pretty sore about it.

I don’t know Steve. If they saw me coming I’ll bet the enemy does too so I better work on walking more quietly or something.

I guess that’s it but I’m proud of you. Selling bonds and all. We sure are using up a lot of bullets here so we need them.

Buck

 

 

Steve,

Wow it’s amazing what a good night’s sleep can do, finally. I can’t believe how dumb I was in the last letter I sent you.

I want to brag a little: my shooting’s really good right now. I made a shot at 850 yards the other day. That’s almost half a mile. I don’t even know how I did it exactly. It’s a feeling you start to get in your gut. You just know where the bullet’s going to go. You focus down really really hard so the air all feels like buzzing static on your skin and you look through the scope almost too far to see and it’s all blurry and far away but somehow so clear. Even though it’s far away.

It’s math too of course. We have to do all these calculations in a stuffy little tent just for the ones they train up for sharpshooting, all angles and windage and vectors. It’s good by the way that Becca is helping Ruthie with her schoolwork tho’ I worry about her she gets lost in the middle some, Ruthie. Kind of a melancholy type. Down in the Mouth is what Dugan says describing guys who get like that. But sometimes the sadder guys are the ones who turn out to be real smart or know things I’d never have thought of. I met one fella who looked just so morose and when I talked to him he lit up like Christmas and told me ALL about how he’s a chemical engineer back home and makes smoke screens to cover our asses here which I’ll tell you is great to know we have in our back pocket. He says he is the one who made the first real San Fernando Smog, which they had there after Pearl Harbor to hide the coast from the Jap aircraft. When we gotta hide from aircraft here too he helps lay down thick black cover made of oily petroleum smoke. Worse'n Jersey smells Steve I tell ya. Oil gets in everything when we gotta hide under that cloud cover like that. In our shirt creases, in our necks, in our noses. In Dugan's mustache. You'd think I was a chimney sweep to look at me.

John says though usually what they got out where he comes from is Tule Fog which is not black and oily it is white and fine and still quite dangerous tho because it covers up everything you can see. Yuletime Tule fog cause it happens in winter and fills everything up gray and white. It's so gray and thick it really is worse than the smoke on battlefields apparently; he says he tried to copy how the particles spread out or something but couldn't exactly due to atmospheric conditions. Boy is he an interesting fella. 

It sure is hard to shoot through the kind of smoke you get on a battlefield sometimes but I manage it. I can see thro stuff pretty good. Apparently my vision is better than perfect. You hear that Steve? You got yourself a buddy with _better than perfect_ vision even through battle fog. You better trust what I tell you now then, about what I see when I look at stuff. I know what's what. I see real clear. 

YOU MIGHT BE COMING HERE? Please excuse me printing out all those BLOCK CAPITALS but I want to LIGHT UP A MARQUEE FOR YOU. That would be just swell and heck maybe I’d help you paint the scenery; I’d help you paint the TOWN which, there is actually a town around here; they’re real poor though and I sometimes give the kids my candy Ma sends which is why I ask for so much she must think I’m really greedy.

I am greedy though. I got all the candy but I keep thinking about other stuff I want. Pictures would be great Steve, really great, I don’t know if you got my earlier letter saying one of you might be nice but if you could, just so I see your face. Face, oy. I hope you really are a little less skinny it must be all the travel and fresh air and all. I can just imagine. I am imagining. Like you said. Even though it’s far away. It’s pretty clear sometimes. 

Yours always,  
Bucky

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -[Red Cross Clubs.](http://www.redcross.org/about-us/history/red-cross-american-history/WWII/SAF)  
> -[Tule fog](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Tule_fog).


	12. Steve

Dear Bucky,

I’ve got a couple of your letters here, and wow, is it good to hear from you. I’m glad they give you a chance to have a little fun. I’m glad they have science fiction books so you can read and forget the world for a while. And have you gone dancing? I guess even if it’s just a chance to hear some music, it would be some fun.

I can’t believe you saw a picture of Captain America. I feel kind of embarrassed. It’s all so corny, and I can’t believe that people actually like it. But you should hear the audience cheer and clap when he decks Hitler. Poor Bill—that’s the guy I share a room with sometimes. He’s our Hitler and even when he’s not wearing the costume and the fake mustache there’s a bit of a resemblance, and you should see the dirty looks he gets when he’s walking around. I think sometimes people don’t even realize they’re doing it, but they frown at him, like they know him from somewhere and don’t like him but can’t even remember why.

Anyway, wow, you saw a picture, huh? What did it look like? Was it a photo or a drawing? I ask because I might have drawn it and wanted to know what you think. The guy is really a lunkhead, but no, not the same one Peggy socked in the face. He’s not a bad guy at all, really, and he and Peggy got along just fine. I have to admit, he’s getting better at his job too, just like all of us. I guess they’re having everyone practice here before letting us go over and entertain the troops.

We’ve made it to California now, and the lunkhead will spend a while making a movie, which means that everyone else gets a bit of a break. None of the girls will be in the movie, and they’re disappointed. It doesn’t make any sense—they’re the ones with the talent. But they’ve got real actors to play all the other parts. I feel sorry for them, having to carry the lunkhead and try to make a decent picture.

I was surprised by California though. I guess I imagined it like Florida because I always heard that it was warm, but it’s not like Florida at all. It’s not steamy and humid. The weather’s perfect, maybe a little too perfect. But the Pacific is beautiful. I went to see it on a cloudy day, and the water was all dark and wild, with much bigger waves than I’ve ever seen at Coney Island. But it was beautiful. I found it hard to imagine what was going on way out at sea. The mountains are beautiful too. I’m sending you a drawing, but it doesn’t do the scenery justice.

You asked about a picture of me, and I’ve been trying. I’m having trouble with it. I haven’t done a self-portrait for years, not since I was assigned one for class. I’ve always had a much better subject for portraits right in front of me, so I never had to resort to drawing myself. I don’t feel guilty looking in the mirror! I guess I’m not that much of a nut. But I guess I usually only do it just to shave.

Have you ever really looked at your face in the mirror? For a long time, I mean? Maybe you have, getting yourself ready for taking some dame out dancing. I know you like to look your best. But when I tried looking in the mirror so that I could draw you a picture, I looked so long that everything looked strange. And I never realized how big my nose is. I’m enclosing what I’ve got, but I don’t think it’s a very good likeness. I guess you’ll have to keep using your imagination.

They are still talking about the show maybe going to Europe, but all they seem to do is talk. I’m hoping that they’ll finally make a decision and set some dates and an itinerary. Then maybe I can start figuring out if you’ll be at one of the stops. I’m greedy too, and it occurred to me that maybe they would have ice cream in XXXXXX? They’re not barbarians, right? So maybe I can treat you to that sundae you’ve been thinking about.

Take care of yourself, Buck. I miss you.  
Yours,  
Steve


	13. Bucky

Steve,

You asked about Dugan’s hat. Well. He got his hands on some liquor today (I don’t know how he does it but he always finds some out there even if we’re not supposed to, SORRY MAJOR but what’s done is done and heck maybe I’m making all this up here to make the Nazis think we’re stupid eh?). So. He got a little dizzy. Not a lot though, he sure can hold his drink, but it made him Down at the Mouth even under the walrus mustache. And he told me, Barnes you really wanna know why I wear the hat and don’t like my helmet? He said “it’s cause helmets don’t always do shit. My friend in the Pacific, God rest his soul, was a medic. They shot him straight through the cross on his helmet. At first I thought his helmet just got blown off, and he was fine, just knocked over. But then I picked it up. And half his head was inside. And then, you know what I did? I picked up my own helmet and put it up top of where we were crouched down behind a hill, so it looked like that was me up there. And one of the Japs shot it. Clean, but didn’t shoot me. So Barnes, now you know, eh? So Billie, now you know, eh?” 

And Billie said, not like a joke at all, “yeah Dum Dum. I do.”

He wears a bowler hat like a cartoon, Dum Dum. That’s the kind of hat he wears. He wore it in the circus when he was a strong man. He also liked to hold a cigar in his teeth even when he lifted barbells, to show it was so easy he didn’t even have to grit them I guess. He is real good at not gritting his teeth, most of the time. 

I wouldn’t tell this story to my parents, like I said. I almost didn’t write it to you, since I know you already feel so guilty not being here yourself. But what I want to get across, I guess, with all my talk about coin flipping and everything… what I want to get across is that so much of war is just crazy and random. There are so many of us running around that even the really smart ones or strong or brave ones, you know, can’t be sure of anything. Like that chemical engineer who does smoke screens: see he did this thing sticking up for some Negro soldiers back in America and they punished him by putting him in as just a regular private until his commander gave em a talking to to get him reassigned because God knows we need him more as an engineer than as Cannon Fodder; but he had to go through a bunch of battles like that just as a buck private not even knowing what would happen and not having had real good training even because of actually being an engineer. 

I don’t know. I guess maybe I’m still a little bit drunk myself. I can’t stop thinking about. I can’t stop. It’s there all the time. Like your stupid little duck tail of hair down your neck that’s such a god damn nuisance there all the time at the back of your head all itchy. 

I wish I could draw better myself.

You’re gonna meet all these movie stars now like Vivien Leigh and maybe you just oughtta go for it Stevie I don’t know maybe it doesn’t matter maybe that’s what you really want if it is that’s fine I’m okay. No. I lied. That’s not all right with me. I just feel like I’m asking a lot is all, asking an awful lot, and I can’t stop thinking here in the dark about ice cream and peaches and even unripe strawberries the hard bursting skin on em and the funny taste that’s sweet but also puckers up your mouth yeah? It’s not even the fighting that kills you Stevie it’s the god damn waiting. It’s the WAITING and hearing the Stukas scream by up top. It’s the waiting and training on the rifle range to take such long, long shots.

God damn it I had too much of that stuff of Dugan’s I guess. I’ll see you in the morning. I mean you know what I mean. Good night.

Love,  
Buck

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -The story of the soldier demoted for trying to stand up for the rights of black soldiers is based on Lt. John Walker--an actual chemical engineer during WW II--though he was not demoted; he asked to be court-martialed and the officer giving him a hard time backed down.


	14. Steve

Dear Bucky,

Geez, Buck, I hardly know where to start. I can understand why you’d take a few drinks when you get a chance, and I can see why it would make it harder to take the fear and the waiting. And you can tell me anything—I hope you know that. And I hope you know that I’d do anything for you. You’re my best pal, like family. Remember that picture Lizzie drew that I told you about? I was sitting right there with you and your folks and your sisters. There’s nothing you could ask that would be too much. And you didn’t ask, anyway. I’m offering. Actually that’s not even true—I don’t need to offer anything because it’s just how things are. How things have been for a while, for me.

But maybe you shouldn’t write letters when you’re drunk? Be careful, Buck. Not just in training or in the field. You don’t have to tell me that you see better than everyone else. I’ve known for a long time that you could see things that no one else could see. (Me, for one.) But maybe that liquor blurred your vision just a little. Please be careful. You also said something in your letters about learning to walk more quietly. I think maybe that’s a good idea, though it’s hard for me to say it when I like hearing your noise. You can chatter at me all day long. I don’t think I’m making any sense, and I don’t even have being drunk as an excuse. And you can just forget my stupid remark about movie stars, as if I give a damn about any of that. I know what’s important. I’m just not good at explaining. But I hope you understand me. I know what’s important, and I’m stubborn, and I won’t give up without a fight. Remember that, soldier, even when I stick my foot in my mouth.

I’ve been thinking an awful lot about those guys you saw sneaking food by the mess tent. I didn’t mention it in my last letter because I didn’t know what to say. But since we’re already talking about all of this sad stuff, I thought I might as well talk about it. I hated reading that. Especially the part about the punch. They should at least have stuck together, it seems to me. We always did, didn’t we? All the times we got ourselves into trouble as kids we never ratted on each other or blamed one another. We always stuck together and took our punishment as a team. I don’t see any reason why that should change. And since, as you pointed out, we’ve gotten into this strange habit of each admitting that the other is right, you can just go ahead and agree with me.

And I have to believe that things won’t always be so hard, not for you. When you come home, you’ll always have plenty to eat, as much as you could ever want. I’m always hungry too, so how about we spend the first few weeks we’re home just eating whatever we feel like? In fact, seeing as how we’re both always so hungry, I’ve decided it might be a good idea to learn a few recipes. I know I’m not going to be able to really practice cooking until this is all over, but I figured I could at least learn a little something. It’s probably a good idea for one of us to know how to cook, don’t you think?

Right now I don’t know if talking about what will happen after the war will cheer you up or make things worse. It cheers me up, but I know I have things easy, compared to you. If I find waiting for this to end hard, how much worse must it be for you? But hang in there, Buck, please? Maybe it’s not fair and maybe it’s all just chance, but you are better and smarter and stronger than most of the guys over there, and I have to believe that it’ll be enough.

I send you all my best,  
Steve

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -NOTE: There will be another chapter posted tomorrow, as well as Sunday. You'll see why.


	15. Bucky

**Letter held back by the Army pending inquiry.**

Okay, Steve.

I had to sit down and write this while I was sober.

I just wanted you to know. I folded the last letter up really fast. Before I could think. Because of how I signed off and all. But I was serious. One hundred percent.

I got your picture of yourself. I think you leaned too close to the mirror: your nose isn’t THAT big, punk. You’re flattering yourself. But hey--maybe it’s better for me to imagine you that way. Ya know?

That picture of the mountains in California is beautiful. You’re making me remember Coney Island now, wading out and crunchy shells underfoot. Sea gulls so loud, like the regular old New Yorkers they are, squawking over bites of the Big Apple that get thrown on the shore. I’d love to see the Pacific, too. Wouldn’t it be fun to have an ice cream on the beach: all sweat and salt and licking our fingers in the washing throb of waves and just lying there in the sand staring up at the sun so bright you close your eyes and can still see it imprinted inside your eye lids.

Which is by the way how I see your pictures. Still imprinted in my eye lids when I go to sleep at night. Just. There. All the time. I have to blink it away out on the rifle range: the picture of what’s home for me I guess? Or not home since you do give me all those pictures like those of California. So pictures of what could be the future. Honest to gosh, Steve, those pictures--all of em--are better than science fiction. Though Buck Rogers is still pretty good.

The Major says we are the Army Of the Future because of all the new stuff we have and radar and the way we operate the tanks and such. So maybe things will all be different after this. Maybe a LOT of things will be different. Scary, that thought is. But also almost a comfort. Things being different. Waves reaching up high and big and dark but still, so warm, you can get lost in em.

So. You say you’ve been reading the pulps yourself. So maybe you’ll listen to me when I tell you a bit of a science fiction adventure story now. Like when we were kids and I used to tell you stories. I’m afraid I’m not real good at being original. I admit to you entirely a lot of the plots I used to give I stole from somewhere from something I had seen before. It’s real hard to imagine something that doesn’t exist, you know? That’s just nowhere? 

But let’s go ahead and see if we can. It may not all be original I’m afraid. 

So we’re out on a ship somewhere; it’s one of those ships like I told you about, painted like Picasso. Painted in jagged shards of color like someone took the world apart and put it back together. A patchwork craziness of colors. And see somehow while we’re sailing, you and me, a storm whips itself up, and in it the U-boats that were trying to get us lose us entirely, and we lose the entire world. There’s an explosion of some kind. Some tremendous boom.

And then when we come to shore it’s on a faraway island. Maybe it’s far in the future. Maybe it’s a different planet. Maybe we got blown clear to somewhere no one’s ever been before, that boom. For sure it isn’t the same world we left behind us in the storm. Maybe the storm shook up the atmospheric pressure so much that it shook up time, too, and pushed us into a vortex of who knows when or where. We come to and it’s just us.

All we can see when we look out from the island is a huge expanse of blue, reaching far, far out to the horizon in every direction. Like that’s the whole world--empty like a blank sheet of paper.

But we’re not scared. We got enough.

It really must be a new world entirely because you can see all the colors too. Not just the different shades of blue, but dark pinks and red like cherries and the warmth of purple in the sky near sunset, darkening down. The island is full of colors, bright enough to itch at your eyeballs, so lush and delicious they swallow up the whole beat of your heart while you look at them. All fruit on the trees so many kinds so sweet they burn your mouth and make you sweat and tremble. And so many colors you could wear your eyeballs out looking at em.

Maybe what happened is the crazy colors of our washed-up boat they all just flung themselves out and splattered over the whole wide world. That crazy magic camouflage just spread itself over everything. Luck that came true.

And we’re not home. We’re not in Brooklyn. Maybe we won’t see Brooklyn ever again; at first we’re scared. And lonely, a little bit, though we have each other so we can’t ever be really, deep-down lonely. But then we see, the longer we’re there, that no: we do see it. Real far away. But real clear, in the distance, at the horizon, the long sloping cables of bridges. The Verrazano Bridge. The George Washington Bridge. The Brooklyn Bridge. We see them there waiting for us only we’re not ready yet. We need to understand some things first and get ready to go back to that world.

Cause the island has real special trees and growing on em is every kind of fruit you could want, and you can see em all, and we can taste em all; and you don’t get sick anymore. There’s something special here. And we never get so hungry that even starting to eat again hurts; no it’s always just a pleasure, just riding the edge of satisfaction. It’s the different world, see. See what happened Steve is this: you weren’t meant to be born in the world you were born in. You were meant to live on this island all along. Almost all the colors in the world we live in got drained away and have been pulled into this island world waiting for you, just waiting. The blue you see so clear always beckoning you the way there. And it took a storm to get you there; and I’m so lucky because you took me along with you. Me I just happened to be on the boat. I just happened to be lucky enough to be there and also maybe I got there because of my eyeballs, being better than perfect in vision, can see blue just the way yours do. We may not see eye to eye in every way but we see the same color of blue. 

So. Here on this island, where you grow the colors back under your skin, we get ready to go back to Brooklyn. And we realize, by looking up at the stars, that it won’t be the same Brooklyn we go back to. It’ll be different. It’ll be a different world itself. 

So til then, let’s wait here on this island, okay, punk? With all the kinds of growing things on trees we can eat. And fine linen cloth to wrap ourselves in, and weather that’s a little too perfect to be real. Here’s how it is punk. Remember when we were kids. And you’d sit in between my knees and lean back on my chest when we hid in our dumb little pillow forts. Well we’ll do that, and my hands around your chest, and I’ll hold you tight up in a tree while we sleep. Like Tarzan up in a tree house or something. So we don’t fall down because you sure would, you do thrash in your sleep. I’ll just hold onto you and we’ll watch the sky get darker and darker purple at night and the last thing we’ll see is one more wink of blue before it all fades.

Your  
Bucky


	16. Bucky

Dear Steve,

I’m still here. 

I can’t

I’m sorry I didn’t write for a little. I guess I got a real talking to for writing letters about being drunk. That was dumb. I’m dumb. You’re right I wasn’t careful and I’m dumb. I was so scared. But like you said. About the guys and taking punishment. So, I’m sorry, but no more complaining about the food for awhile.

Maybe you will be coming over here? I guess I know what you mean about a lot of talk but not really knowing. Not really knowing anything. Over here, it seems like the higher ups keep changing the stories they give us, and also the code names of what missions we do. Some of the names are real funny, but I guess I can’t share with you what they are. 

I don’t know. I don’t have a lot to say. So, why don’t you just tell me about how Hollywood is, and I’ll listen. I think I’m gonna go watch a film tonight while we’re here at base. They’re showing something Humphrey Bogart that looks good; I kind of want to go get lost in that for a little. And try not to remember smuggling popcorn into the Paramount or anything. And then, tomorrow, we have to set off on this mission trying to secure a location that’s kind of tricky. So keep your fingers crossed for me punk. 

It’ll be fine though. It’s all the same over here. As much as I guess sometimes the fighting we do can be thrilling to just imagine, a lot of it is the same. Foxholes, marching, cleaning rifles, looking after the guys, towing broken down tanks around with tractors. Trying to shoot birds for some extra grub. Which is not that hard, but plucking them, not my favorite job. The feathers don’t let go easy when the birds are shot, as compared to when we used to go help the Rosens kill their chickens. Remember how they’d just let the bird go all relaxed while they slid the knife in through the beak into the little bird brain? That way, the feathers wouldn’t seize up when it was dead like if you wrung their necks. But now of course we’ve gotta shoot em so everything’s harder, we don’t get to keep no fucking chickens in the army for plucking. 

Anyway punk. Tell me things. Just normal things.

Bucky

P.S. the picture, you asked about the picture. It was a comic style picture like in tempera paint as I've seen you do. I guess you drew that?? Huh you draw the Captain America comic. That’s damn good line work. You know something? You made him kind of look like you. At least I can look at those and know I have some of your drawings but maybe don’t send other ones for awhile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> -'Smuggling popcorn into the Paramount': fun fact, popcorn wasn't _allowed_ in the Paramount Theater during the '30s. People smuggled it in. They didn't figure out they ought to sell it as a moneymaker until later.  
> 


	17. Steve

Dear Bucky,

I was relieved to get your letter. You’ve been writing so regularly that I was a little worried when I didn’t get anything for a while. And then I opened the letter and read what you’d written. Gosh, Bucky, I really don’t know what to say. I don’t know how much you can tell me about what happened, but, well, I guess there’s nothing I can do to make it better, is there?

I hope you don’t think I’m mad at you about any of it. So you don’t have to apologize. I guess I can see why someone who doesn’t know you like I do might not understand your drunken talk. They don’t know the way you talk nonsense. I know you don’t mean any harm, so don’t think that I’m bothered at all. Your letters make me smile, and I know that’s all you’re trying to do with all your chatter. I just hope our goofing off didn’t make any real trouble for you. If it did, I’m sorry for my part in it. I’ve always been one to egg you on when you get going, so I’ll try to stop that. No more goofing around for a while. I really don’t know what else to say, so I’m going to change the subject, but please don’t let this get you too down in the mouth, OK?

You asked about Hollywood. I don’t know if I’ve seen Hollywood, because I thought it was supposed to be glamorous. But the studio is just a bunch of warehouses. You can get lost walking around because they all look the same. I thought I was going into our set one day, but when I opened the door they were working on some jungle picture.

There are a lot of people who help out with making a movie. I would never have guessed how many. Like I think I told you, none of the girls are in the movie, but they tried to give some work to some of the crew, since there’s no pay during this break. There are a few guys from our crew that came along just to lift and carry. Even Bill, our Hitler, works at lugging stuff around just so he can keep sending a little money home. Our seamstress is there too. She doesn’t get to make costumes or anything. That’s someone else’s job, but she’s there to repair things if they rip. I like seeing her there. When there’s nothing for me to do and she’s not busy, I go and sit with her and watch everyone working. I feel less out of place when I sit by her.

They’ve got professionals who paint the backdrops for the movies, so they sure didn’t need me, but I was allowed to hang around and watch. They’ve got all kinds of tricks they use—lighting and perspective—to make the stuff look more realistic. It was pretty interesting. After I kept bugging them and asking a lot of questions, one of the guys handed me a brush and let me help a bit. I think I did OK and didn’t embarrass myself, but I was just coloring in the stuff that someone else had already drawn.

The director of this movie is a real character, let me tell you. He sits far away in a dark corner and just watches mostly. He’s got a mustache somewhere between Gable and Dali. It’s actually kind of hard not to laugh at him, the way his mustache wiggles around when he’s annoyed. I think maybe he’s just doing this picture for the money, because he lets his assistant do all the work. That poor guy. He’s trying so hard, but the lunkhead sure wasn’t cut out for pictures. He gets nervous and looks right at the camera, and they have to cut and start the scene over. They’ve given up trying to give him many lines because he always flubs them. They try to keep him running around a lot, because he’s pretty good at that, and it keeps him too busy to look at the camera, I guess. The real actors are good sports, but I can see that one day the assistant director is going to blow his top.

I’m glad you get to go to the movies. Just to enjoy a little bit of normal life and let yourself forget where you are for a while. I haven’t been to the movies in months. But they said they’ll let everyone in the show come to a special screening of the lunkhead’s movie when it’s finished, so I guess I’ll get to go then.

Write me soon, will you? I hated not hearing from you. And I don’t like reading the word “tricky” in relation to a mission when you’re talking all serious. Write soon to let me know that everything went fine. I bet you’re just feeling spooked after getting lectured when you didn’t do anything wrong, and that’s understandable. But you’ll be OK. Take care of yourself. And please write soon. There’s a whole lot more I want to say, but I guess I should close now.

Sincerely,  
Steve


	18. Bucky

Dear Steve,

I’m still here. 

I’m still here.

I’m still here.

Still here.

Twelve o’clock and all’s well.

I’m still here and fighting fit.

Still here and pretty wet today.

Still here.

I just realized I’ve been writing to you I’m still here on the same sheet of paper (because I don’t have much). It’s getting very grubby, though compared to the general grubbiness of everything it’s hard to tell sometimes. Sorry. But obviously you’re not getting these letters. I haven’t sent them yet. So what am I writing ‘I’m still here’ for? 

You know Dugan has a wife? Yeah. It’s kind of sweet. He’s faithful and all. I guess those circus stories are from the past. Or some of them are just stories. He’s very good at poker too, a good bluffer, better than me. He and I stayed outside when the guys went to a cat house this time. We talked a little bit and played cards, but mostly sat and wrote letters. Anyhow, at least I got a pen and some more paper there. 

Also, I traded some canned peaches for a couple eggs, which I cooked, not kidding, on the back of of a shovel. (Clean. No foxholes tonight.) I was dying for a real egg, “The old-fashioned kind you crack open,” as Bob Hope said. That isn’t a complaint. I didn’t mind having eggs instead of canned peaches.

Our unit’s taken to wearing scarves made out of blue parachute silk. It’s pretty dumb how a little color and something soft on your skin makes you feel better. It may also be that it’s a good luck charm, just a little. Maybe I’ve changed my mind about that. Or I’m being dumb today.

We also gave a lot of parachute silk away. The locals can't get any what with the war but the kind off our chutes. Some of the guys said that's what the cat house girls wore--silk underwear from our... Or I guess they were our side's parachutes. It's funny. What luck is and what you get to appreciate or be grateful for. The locals aren't always so friendly cept when we give them things I guess sometimes they don't trust us soldiers to be on the right side of this war I dunno.

How are you? Still in Hollywood? There aren’t any USO shows out here but I’m holding out hope we’ll get back to base by the time they wrangle your show on the road. Keep telling me things punk, so I don’t have to make up your stories in my head. Tho I will.

Still here. 

Still here and all’s clear. Today, the sky is very blue.

Still here. So is the postal unit. So… just imagine you got all those letters for those weeks I was out of reach. 

Yours,  
Bucky

 

 

Dear Steve,

I got your letter. About shooting in Hollywood and the assistant director. What is it with the guys who are almost but not quite in charge of things, huh? Lousy jerks. Like they have to prove what power they have over things. Don’t let em tell you what to do too much or run you too ragged. But maybe, don’t punch them directly in the face either, no matter what influence that Peggy gal and now maybe this Captain America actor have over you. There are ways around that kind of thing if you’re smart, which you are. I bet you make yourself so useful on the set they’re promoting you to head artist on a big picture any day. With a nice cushy office and full say over when you get to go on a USO tour and direct the scenery.

It’s funny. I just realized. You call me a jerk all the time and now you’re calling this actor guy a lunkhead, but it seems like you like him. Maybe you have a new friend over there. I guess it’s good you not being lonely. I’m not lonely. I miss you, but I’m really not lonely. Like I said, I have the guys, Dugan and Sol and Billie and even Lou, who’s warmed up a little to the rest of us now we’ve all been through a few adventures. Which, let me tell you--we have.

The other day, I 100% truly stayed up in a tree for 14 hours. I nodded off, almost, and had to tie myself there. Don’t ask how I pissed. It’s not pretty. (That said, at least I didn’t shoot myself.). But I shot a lot of the enemy. 

We also had to do a river crossing. That was interesting. It was like herding big stupid cattle getting the tank crews across through the shallow side or on barges, all groaning metal and creaking rollers. Some of the tanks are broken-down and barely run anymore but we tow them along for the gun turrets, you know. One of them, sadly, turned over sideways in the mud, and let me tell you, getting the tractors manouvered to get that sucker up was a headache. Made me glad I'm not running the show here. It was funny to watch, though. It was like kids playing with toys only so tense and frustrated, you’d laugh if you could, which we really don’t have time to and get hollered at for if we do, besides.

Keep telling me things punk. I’m still here. Sometimes it feels like I’ll always still be here. 

I mean. I WILL. I’ll always be here.  
Bucky


	19. Steve

Dear Bucky,

Geez, Buck, you sound down. I hate this. I hate sitting here dwiddling my thumbs while you and the other guys are over there fighting hard and getting discouraged. There’s this bigwig who calls bond sales the most important front of the war, but it sure doesn’t feel important at times like this. It may put bullets in your gun, but it feels like that’s a really far stretch when I wish to God I was right there next to you so that I could look out for you. I think I understand how you’re feeling—though maybe it’s impossible for me to completely understand—and the last thing I want is for you to censor yourself. But I hate reading your letters knowing I can’t do anything to help. It’s driving me crazy. And there’s not a damn thing I can do about it.

Don’t let it make you stupid, all right? I can tell things are bad, and of course you’re taking it hard, but please try to keep your head on straight and take care. Pretend I am there next to you, bugging you to be careful. Take care of yourself the way you’ve always taken care of me. You’re there and I’m here, but I’ll always be here for you. That’s a promise.

It feels frivolous to keep talking about my stupid job, but you did ask me, so I’ll try to keep things as normal as possible for the rest of this letter. As long as you promise to at least keep writing. As hard as it is to hear you so down, it would a million times worse not to hear from you at all.

Some of the guys who work on the sets are really nice. They’ve let me help a lot—more now that I’ve proven that I’m not totally hopeless. It helps pass the time. There’s a lot of waiting around while making a movie. Some of the art department fellas go out for drinks at quitting time, and they invited me along. I guess I had a pretty good time, but I kept wishing you could have been there. It felt like at home, just hanging out with the guys. It seems like you need that a lot more than I do. Though it sounds like Dugan really is a true friend. With all of his stories, it’s kind of nice to hear that he’s a good guy, staying true to his wife. There’s got to be a lot of temptation out there, and I guess a lot of people give in, especially if they’re sitting right out front knowing what’s going on inside. That would be awfully hard to resist. And I guess the folks back home have to be forgiving about that.

Still no word on where the show will go once we wrap up here. I keep my ears open, and there’s still talk of heading overseas, so I’m hopeful. I’d love to see you. I hope we still recognize each other, what with you skinnier and me not so skinny, and you might have given up and grown a mustache after all, maybe a whole beard.

No, I didn’t draw the Captain America comic. I guess it would be OK to say that I helped a little, but I can’t take credit for it. I was hoping you’d seen one of the bond posters. I like those better. I feel like the artist who did those had a little sense of humor, at least. It seems like the comics take themselves too seriously, for all that they’re supposed to be just comics. There's a lot about the comics that makes me angry too. I don’t know which comic you saw, but there’s some ugly stuff in there, terrible caricatures. I complained about it, believe me, and I won't shut up about it, no matter how many times they order me to. I know we're at war with Japan, but we shouldn't stoop to that kind of thing.

Speaking of the lunkhead, he’s now officially a leading man. He doesn’t get the girl or anything like that, because they kept the story about the war, but the movie’s just about done. It’s not a good movie. They’re pushing this thing through production pretty quickly. They think it’ll boost morale. But if it makes it over there to where you are don’t bother seeing it. Stick to Bogart, trust me.

I like thinking about you having that scarf. Just one small thing to give you a little comfort. So focus on that—just a little something soft to remind you that not everything in the world is hard and dirty. There’s a hell of a lot more I want to say, but I don’t have your poetic touch. Use your imagination and fill in the blanks for me, OK?

Please write again as soon as you can. I’m trying to be patient, and I know it has to be worlds harder for you than for me, but waiting is really hard.

I know you said you wouldn’t complain about the food anymore, but I don’t give a damn about any of that right now. I’m sending you a giant ice cream sundae with extra cherries and melted hot fudge. Take care, damn it. You hear me?

Yours very truly,  
Steve


	20. Bucky

Dear Steve,

Now that’s funny--you telling me to be careful! Punk, if you were here, I’d tell you to be careful. Hell, I tell the guys in my unit every day. Be careful. It’s only with you I’m NOT careful, I swear to God. You’re getting all the recoil from me over here and I’m sorry for it. I guess I trust you to handle knowing what’s going on in my head more than most other people. Even Dum Dum, you see, he has his own shit. All the guys do. And me being the sergeant, you see, I have to think about things like: did Billie Do put his rifle together right? Did Lou try to drink rubbing alcohol again? (Trust me: even mixed with concentrated orange juice it is not something you want to do.) And then more serious concerns like how well Dugan and I managed to calculate the windage when I’m out on one of my missions I’m not supposed to talk about in too much detail. Or what we’re supposed to do if our camouflage cover doesn’t work out.

See, Steve, I’m apparently really good with a gun, so I go on these special missions sometimes. I have pulled down very good numbers. It’s called a kill count. I’m not gonna tell you mine. Don’t kiss and tell is what they say about that. Kills have to be witnessed of course to be official in the Army books but usually they are in my case, because Dum Dum’s there with me. Dum Dum, who may put his foot in his mouth but who is not in fact so dumb, is what’s called my spotter. We spend a lot of time working out angles and distances (trigonometry! goddamn you wouldn’t have got through that without me punk) and then lie out in wherever together usually covered in this burlap crap. It takes a long time to set up. It’s not all romance and hiding in the bushes and bam pow like those comics you were talking about. It’s almost like when you’re on a work crew figuring out how beams are going to go up or railroad ties. Except we’re figuring out the path of the bullet. See Steve--honest to gosh being at war is pretty similar to doing work selling bonds I bet. It’s a lot of dragging around. And setting up. And painting SETS even. (Well if by sets you mean covering yourself in mud and draping tanks in nets and brush to hide the shape, and all.) 

Lt. Fischer he is the one with the real stick up his ass and HA he’s not the one reads this so I will go ahead and say it. He has a goddamn stick up his ass that one. Anyhow. But he says some nice stuff. He went to college of course and officer’s school and doesn’t know one damn end of a rifle from the other, but he knows Sun Soo Art of War! He says, “All warfare is deception.” Well okay then. So, we cover ourselves up in burlap and hide and fire on the enemy and that’s that, just like the theater I bet EVEN down to the ass of an assistant director.

The thing though about being a sniper is that sometimes guys who find out about that’s what I do get cagey, or think I’m a coward. I don’t know. We all get edgy when snipers fire on us; it doesn’t feel like fair play. Having seen it from the other side I somewhat understand the reasons for it but still anyhow that’s why I haven’t talked about that side of things too much. But I’m damn good at it, so I’ll admit to you: I’m a little proud. Just a little. You always say how I’m stronger and better and whatnot and I don’t know, really, about that. I guess I figure here’s how it is. Whatever job you get given, you do your best. So I am. And I’m proud--not of being strong, or fast, or smart, but of doing the job as well as I can. 

(And fine also okay a little bit being better at it than other people, I guess I do like to win you’re right punk. But there’s nothing wrong with that as don’t we all hope to win this war someday.)

I hope you can tell yourself that too Steve. Whatever job you get given I know you do your damnedest, whether it’s those sets you paint, or the mending you’re doing, or other art I wanna hear about… Hope they're not riding you too hard with heavy lifting jobs. What are you doing, if not the comics? What’re your days like? I’m glad you’re hanging out with the art department guys. That’s great. That’s important, friends, like you said. 

Let me ask you something. Tell me again: what do you see when you wake up. Or tell me. If you can. What do you see inside your eyelids when you go to sleep. 

Because I figure no matter where we are, that’s really all we got. It’s what we go to bed to and what we see when we wake up. It’s what we carry around in the dark behind our eyes. It’s just the best in us. It’s the best we do. It’s the way all the thoughts in us get shook up while we sleep and come out, still the same, all the time, when we wake up, like they’re just with us no matter what. With me when I lie down and when I wake up. Gosh I hope I didn’t just blaspheme but you know me, I was never as good with doing prayers right as you.

Thanks for the sundae. I had a real good time imagining it. Been a long, long time. 

Yours,  
Bucky


	21. Steve

Dear Bucky,

I was so happy to get your letter. I don’t know what to say about your time served in a tree. It makes sense, now that I think about it, that you’d have to be up high sometimes, but 14 hours seems like an awfully long time. I worry about you. I bet that for everything you tell me there’s 20 things you don’t say. Or 100. Someday I want you to tell me everything, even the awful stuff. I don’t want you to carry that stuff around all by yourself forever.

You said to keep telling you stuff, and I want to, but like I said before, I feel a little bad living it up here while you’re having such a rough time. So tell me to shut up about it if it starts bugging you. Things are quiet here now while they decide what we’re doing next. There were a couple of shows here, but it only kept us busy for a couple of days.

We saw the movie, and people seemed to like it. They clapped and cheered, but I was embarrassed for the lunkhead all the way through. I had to laugh when you said maybe he’s a friend of mine. I guess he’s an OK guy, but no, it’s really not possible. Besides, I’ve already got the best pal anyone could ever ask for, so what do I need with a lunkhead like that? Anyway, I think we should stick to the stage show. At least when that’s over, there’s no evidence of how awfully corny it all is.

The thing I mostly wanted to tell you about was that I finally saw some real Hollywood stars. It’s kind of a long story, but I figure you’ve got a lot of time to kill, so I’ll start at the beginning. Frank and some of the other art department painters invited me out for a few beers after the screening of the lunkhead’s movie. It was a nice quiet evening at first, but Frank offered to show me his paintings, and there was kind of a misunderstanding. It turned out he’s an experienced chef, and he somehow got the impression that I wanted him to teach me how to cook. I don’t know how he got that idea. I never said a word about it to anyone. He was real nice about it, once I cleared things up and apologized. He even shared a couple of recipes with me. He teased me a lot about how much I don’t know. I can boil water, at least, and fry up an egg (I can’t imagine doing it on a shovel though—that’s a little puzzling) but there’s a whole lot out there to learn.

After a while Frank said if I didn’t want to learn to cook we should get out and do something fun, so he took me to a party. You know I’ve never really been one for parties, but I figured how many chances would I get to go to a real Hollywood party? He borrowed a friend’s car, and we drove out into a really swanky neighborhood with beautiful houses. Maybe they weren’t mansions, but they were big and fancy and had huge green lawns and flower gardens. The house we stopped at had a bunch of cars parked out front, and when we got out of the car Frank said, “James always has everyone out by the pool.” The name made me think of you, of course. I was thinking about you over there and how strange it is that where you are and this place, all green and clean, could even be on the same planet. God, I miss you, Buck.

Anyway, I couldn’t believe my eyes when we went into the backyard. It was the craziest party I’ve ever seen. Everyone was drinking, if not drunk, and there was a lot of food there—stuff I never even imagined. Someone asked me if I wanted to swim. I said I didn’t have a suit with me and got laughed at. I saw then that most of the folks in the pool weren’t wearing swimsuits. I can’t tell you half of what was going on there without blushing. Even thinking about it, I’m blushing. And there were a couple of movie stars I recognized. I don’t want to name names and get anyone into trouble, but I was surprised, to say the least. It was probably well after midnight at this point, but the party was going strong.

People were not shy, let me tell you. It was a little much. It was a lot much. So I moved away from the mob a little, just to catch my breath, and found this building behind the house. It turned out to be a studio. I didn’t meant to snoop, but I couldn’t help looking at the paintings. I was in there for probably five minutes before I realized I wasn’t alone. The artist himself showed up. It was his house and his studio. You’ll never guess who it was, Buck. It was James Whale. You might not recognize his name, but you know his work. He directed Frankenstein and Bride of Frankenstein and The Invisible Man. Can you believe it? We must have gone to see Frankenstein at least four times. He did Show Boat too, which surprised me. Remember how my mother liked that movie? He seemed pleased when I told him that. He was a really nice guy.

He told me he’s done with the movie business, though he’s not very old. He runs a little theater now, which gives free seats to servicemen and donates its profits to the war effort. He works on his paintings too, but it sounds like he’s kind of a homebody, in spite of the wild party that was going on in his backyard. I told him about my drawings, and he was nice about it.

We talked about the war a little. It seems like you can’t talk to anyone for more than a few minutes without it coming up. He laughed at me when I said I wished I could be over there. He laughed for a long time. I guess he could see I was getting mad and apologized. Turns out he was a lieutenant in the British army and was captured in 1917. He spent time in a German prison camp. And this is actually the part I really wanted to tell you, Buck. It was while he was in that camp that he first was in a play. They put on plays to pass the time, and he wrote the plays and learned to act. After the war was over, he was in a bunch of plays in England before he came here to work on movies.

He seemed embarrassed that he told me so much about his time in the war, so I didn’t stay long in the studio after that. But think about it, Buck. If he hadn’t been a soldier and been captured, he might never have tried acting. What was probably the worst time in his life brought him to a lot of good things, a lot of what made his career, and I think he got a lot of satisfaction out of it, even if he thinks he’s done with it now. So I was thinking we never know where life is going to take us. You were saying it’s all chance, and maybe you’re right. But good things—things we really don’t expect—can come out of even bad experiences. You find hidden talents. Who knows? The way you write, it’s like poetry. Maybe you’ll end up a poet, or write the next great American novel. And no matter what you end up doing, people will always respect that you did your duty and served.

I guess you feel stuck. I know you’re still there, but you’re learning stuff still and doing the most important thing in the world right now. I really appreciate you writing. I can tell it’s gotten harder for you to write lately, but keep on writing, please. There’s still talk of the show going to Europe, and you damn well better still be there when I get there. I think about you all the time. Take care of yourself.

Wishing you all the best,  
Steve

 

Dear Bucky,

How are you? I hope that you are well. Without a letter from you to answer, I hardly know what to say. I haven’t been very busy, so there isn’t much news. I think about you a lot and still really wish I was over there with you.

Do you remember the time your mother got us to take the girls to the zoo? Maybe it was just Becca and Ruthie. I think Lizzie was just a baby. Anyway, remember that Becca was excited to see the tiger because she had that stuffed tiger toy, but when we got there, she started crying because of the way the tiger kept prowling around in his cage. She thought he looked sad and said his cage was too small. I know I can’t make poetry like you do, and it’s probably not a fair analogy, me being more scrawny housecat than tiger, but I found myself pacing around my hotel room this morning, and I think I know just how he felt. I feel like there’s so much I could do if they would just let me. But instead I’m waiting for them to make up their minds. I know you say there’s a lot of waiting around over there too, but I feel so useless.

I should tell you that your mother still writes me every week. I haven’t mentioned it lately because I’ve had more to talk about, I guess. I really appreciate her being so kind. She’s always tried to mother me a little since Ma died, I know that, and I really appreciate it. Your mother is a great lady. I know what I can do. I’ll send along the new picture that Lizzie sent me. Your mother put it in her last letter. I still have the other one she did of the whole family. I actually am not sure who this picture is supposed to be. I figure maybe it’s you and me. But maybe the one with dark hair is supposed to be Becca (the hair seems a little too long to be yours) and the skinny one is supposed to be her Joe. I can’t tell if the circles are glasses or just eyes. I think Lizzie has a little more practicing to do before she’s ready for a gallery show! But I like it anyway. I hope it’ll make you smile.

I haven’t been smiling much. I’ve been on my own a lot. There’s no more real work now that the movie’s done. Frank said he might be able to get me work on sets, but I can’t ask him about that now. I don’t spend time with him and the other art department fellas much anymore. Actually not at all. It got a little awkward after that misunderstanding I told you about.

I miss you, Buck. I miss our creaky little rooms and our drafty windows and just hanging around and shooting the breeze with you. I miss your mother’s brisket, and I want ice cream all the damn time. I’m starving for it. I wonder if you’ll even have an appetite when you get home. I know things are bad, but I’m afraid you’ve decided all the ice cream talk was a stupid mistake.

I know I’m shooting off at the mouth in a bad way, but it’s been a while since I got a letter from you and it’s making me a little crazy. I hope you’re OK. I figured I’d write anyway, and maybe there’ll be a couple of my letters waiting for you when you get back from your mission, or from whatever is keeping you from being able to write. I miss you, Buck. Please take care.

Yours,  
Steve


	22. Bucky

Hi Steve,

It’s raining today. And tell you what, the Army kind of fell asleep on the job when it came to handing out gear in some ways (keep raising money with those bonds! Forget bullets… send galoshes). I’m wearing a pair finally that I found that is way too big for me. I want to apologize looking back for the time I let you borrow my pair and laughed at you for looking like Donald Duck. I almost lost one in the mud but grimly hung on. The realities of war Steve. Losing our boots in the mud like kids. Tell that to the guys from your movie. 

It’s funny how the little annoyances get under your skin though. I was thinking about that the other day and hoping I don’t make it seem too romantic out here because you do sound so fed up with not being here yourself. It IS the little everyday things that bother me! And maybe I DO get too highfallutin about being a soldier serving my country and all. And my kill count. I feel a bit ashamed having run off at the mouth bragging like that. Especially about killing people. What kind of a thing is that. When, really, I think what I worry is that most of us get driven crazy by boots that just don’t fit and wet socks. And being stuck in places feeling unimportant while other people do things you think matter more.

So I’m sorry if I haven’t been paying attention to you Steve I really am. I’ll try to take more care with that. I’m going to read through your letters so many times when we get them at the next time we meet up with the platoon.

Yours,  
Bucky

 

 

Dear Steve,

You have no idea how long a letter I am about to write you, and how many more I plan to, God and Brigadier Generals willing. You’ll have em coming out of your ears now we’re back mustering for our next big push which thank gosh may take awhile as it seems the higher ups are working out kinks. Also they keep changing the password and response to different kinds of animals I can’t fuckin keep em straight. 

Anyhow. Wow. What a STORY you told.

It sounds like you had a Whale of a time at at the party.

No… I shouldn’t joke. I actually feel like you really took me there with you and I love that. That’s amazing. Gosh. You at a party. And meeting a chef and all. I’m tickled. That’s amazing. Actually, what’s amazing is me picturing the look on your face (oy face) as you looked around at all the stuff going on, that blush that picks up the tips of your ears and darkens down all like a sunset. 

And that Whale guy he talked to you. See? You’re easy to talk to. Which is funny, because you’re not exactly easy on yourself or anyone else; it’s just easy to talk to you because I trust you have your head on straight and see things the way they are, which is unusual. You don’t pull punches. And sometimes, I want that. That kind of response. Not a sliding sideways look away with a smirk like Lou does. Or a nervous jumpy little head nod like Billie. Or even a rough grin like Dugan who always has something blocked up he doesn’t show past all his bluff. But a look straight at you, which is how I feel when you look at me. All level and like you’re really there. Actually, that’s how I feel reading your letters even: like I can see your eyes behind em.

Also about the pool don’t worry. It isn’t like we don’t have green clean things here. We got some. No one to offer to teach me to cook but that’s all good the ingredients we got out here aren’t the best to work with (don’t get me started on lima beans, don’t even get me started.) It is fine you talking ice cream. I do think about it some. Like I said we’re out and about a lot, so plenty of time for daydreaming about food and like you I let my mind get away from me a little. Hell. I don’t even know recipes either, I plan on just throwing things together like mad and seeing what happens. You know me--I don’t think things through like you do. But I’m real quick on picking up the steps of a new dance so I should be just fine in the kitchen too.

Frankenstein! Oh wow Steve. Oh boy. I never told you this but that damn movie gave me nightmares! It really did; now you know. But I had to be a big man and see it four times spending all my nickels and of course you were all about the way they used light and shadow, all cool and calm yourself. The Invisible Man too. That’s something else. You know I read the story of it and liked that too, that’s a great thing to remember; I’m going to replay that in my head when I get bored out here. What a guy, to have done that, this Whale. 

A writer? I don’t know Steve, you’re gonna give me a head even bigger than it already is. Maybe for the movies. Maybe you could introduce me to this James Whale fella. Who knows? I do like making up stories in my head out here. Maybe I could write some pulps, since frankly that’s where my taste lies. Or, if I write a movie, you could do art direction and paint all the sets or we could do a cartoon for Disney with a fleet of guys working under us and be rich and famous and get a nice big house maybe with a garden like you saw out in California. And all the fucking chickens we want if we want them.

Oh, though, I will say, speaking of how he learned to act in the war…

I wasn’t GONNA say this but okay. So, you know Dugan was a circus fella. So sometimes we get bored we throw together our own sort of show when we’re bored. (To be honest I told the guys about you and how you do the sets and art direction and maybe kind of led them to believe you direct the whole damn USO show sorry bout that Steve). 

Anyhow, like I said, we have our own show. Dugan tips his hat at just the right angle and twirls his rifle around like a baton which I’d holler at him for if I was a better sergeant I’m sure. And he announces all our acts. Would you believe, Lou sings opera? Yeah, none of us can believe it either and we sort of regret letting him start. Billie pretends to be a lion. Just horsing around. Or should I say lion around. Except he’s quite energetic. Ha, ha. And actually, over time he’s gone from doing a fake lion tamer act with Dugan, to now doing a fair imitation of the Cowardly Lion from Wizard of Oz with that voice and talking about specifics of our fights and all. He even sings the song: 'If I were Gen'ral of the Armeee!' instead of 'If I were King of the Forest!' and says all the things he'd do only the animals he says would respect him are the dumb animal code names they give us as passwords, not the ones the Lion names in the movie. 

He even acts out our fights again in that Cowardly Lion voice. 'And then we socked 'em. And whacked 'em. And we threw their potato mashers (which is the German grenades Steve not me complaining about food) back at 'em! And tomorrow we're gonna do it again!' and then he says just like the Cowardly Lion in the movie: 'There's just one thing I want you fellas ta do...' and we yell out 'What's that?' and he says 'TALK ME OUT OF IT!' and we laugh. 

Now me… well Steve, I’ll be honest I put those bad jokes to good use and do a regular comedy show, cribbing left and right like mad and stealing from Bob Hope and Groucho Marx and Jack Benny and everyone I can goddamn think of but me being so charming and debonair it goes over real well. So now you know. See there is some good green things out here, warm things and good fun.

What a sweet picture of Lizzie’s, though. I can’t quite tell who it is. Maybe she wasn’t sure drawing it. Probably it’s Becca and Joe. It’s so funny how they’re still pretty serious. I guess now he’s almost seventeen, that’s pretty old now. Now I feel old myself.

I guess I missed your birthday. The days all seemed to run together somehow and now you’re 25 and me 26. Real grown up, both of us now.

You said you haven’t been going out with the guys… with that Frank guy. Well. I’m real sorry about the misunderstanding (To be honest I'm not that sorry that it was that--a misunderstanding). And I’m sorry you feel like a caged cat. That was a beautiful thing though and it’s true it’s how you are. You gotta be rubbed the right way I think because you really feel things, seems to me. Me I guess I feel like a house cat let OUT of its house like I don’t know what to do with myself and I like sometimes even being told what to do even though I complain about Lt. Fischer a lot. (To be honest I think sometimes I complain because that’s what NCOs do, we complain about the officers, it’s the Done Thing and in some ways I do always do the Done Thing and always have done but you don’t do you).

I’m sorry you’re not smiling. I hope this letter gets you in better spirits. I’M STILL HERE.

Yours,  
Bucky

P.S. Don’t worry about shooting off at the mouth as much you were fine not near as bad as I can be.

P.P.S. OH SO. Since I did miss your birthday and feel bad I didn't send anything, I just slipped a little square of parachute silk in this letter I hope they let it through it's mighty thick in an envelope. This silk is lucky if you believe in such things. In that I am still alive and made it through everything with it. Maybe you could use it as a handkerchief or something, tho let me be honest with you: it is a bit dirty. You see: I had to put it in my pants to keep it safe from all the mud and well maybe I just forgot it there right in my underwear for quite awhile. Whoops. It does feel good against the skin though, as you say. So maybe you could clean it up some and put it to some use.

It's a nice color of blue where it's not dirty. A color I believe I've seen somewhere before, like a clear blue you could look at forever and see behind your eyes when you go to bed at night.


	23. Steve

Dear Bucky,

Since I don’t have any new letters from you just now, I’ve spent a lot of time going over your old ones. I’ve kept them all. I started right at the beginning and geez, Bucky, SOCKS?! At times I get way more than my share of the stupid. You write that and I go and answer “oh hey your ma sent me some socks.” Thanks for putting up with me, Buck. But I like reading your old letters, believe me. And now every time I put on my socks I think about your letter. I like reading the new ones even better, even when you’re down in the mouth, so write when you get a chance, OK?

I think part of the reason I was having such a rough time was that I’ve got nothing to keep me busy. At least when I’m doing something for the show I feel like I’m doing something useful, however small a contribution it may be. So I asked around to find out where I might be able to help out. At first they tried to turn it into a big USO effort and get all the girls to volunteer for something, but I talked them out of that for now. I just wanted to go on my own. I spent all day yesterday at the veterans hospital. I helped wherever I could, doing everything from handing out lunch trays to pushing laundry carts around.

The nurses were very nice, but after a while they ran out of things for someone totally without useful skills to do! So I sat and played cards with a couple of the fellas for a while. They were a little worse for wear with their injuries, but they seemed relieved to be home and seemed to be glad for the company. Most of the guys I talked to had been in the Pacific somewhere. They’re in the hospital until they’re ready to go home. They were from all over the country, but I didn’t find anyone from New York.

Maybe I’ll go back. It did make me feel like a heel a little though—those guys still healing and me there just to make myself feel better. But I figured if you or your pals got injured (though don’t you DARE get injured), you might appreciate someone who had time to sit and play a round of cards and just listen for a while. The staff is so overworked they don’t have time for any of that. So that was my day, trying to be useful instead of sitting around feeling sorry for myself.

After I got back to the hotel from the hospital last night, I found a few sketches to send you. The lady with glasses is the show seamstress that I told you about. I know you don’t know her, but for some reason the portrait just turned out really well, so I’m sending it to let you see that I’m getting better. I guess waiting around at least gives me time to practice! I’m putting in one of the girls too, backstage, ready for a show. I did this one a while ago, but I like the way it turned out too. Frank saw it in my sketchbook a while back and said it reminded him of Degas—do you remember the ballerinas? But I think he was just blowing smoke. Don’t let the other guys see that one! I know they’re a beautiful bunch of dames, but I don’t like the idea of their picture getting passed around like pin-ups. They still treat me like a little brother, and I feel like I should look after them like you look after the girls.

I guess I’ll wrap this up and send it along so that you get it as soon as possible after that last one. I let myself ramble a bit. I don’t want you to worry about me. I'm doing just fine. Take care of yourself, Buck.

Love,  
Steve

Dear Bucky,

It seemed like a long time between letters, so I was especially glad to get your letter this time. I love getting your letters because they let me know that you’re still safe. So thanks for writing. Thanks so much.

I think about you a lot, wondering if maybe you’re back up in a tree or hiding with Dugan in burlap. I was thinking about what you wrote about war being deception, and I say that if that’s what it takes, then lie your head off. Deceive the hell out of everyone. Except me. Do whatever you have to to keep yourself safe. That’s an order.

I was thinking about what you said about fair play too. I guess it’s not. You know me. You know me too well, and you know I’m a stickler for doing the right thing. But it seems to me that there’s nothing right in war. There’s no good or fair way to do it. So you do the wrong thing for the right reasons. And you should be proud of what you’re doing. Because it is work, and it’s not all just natural talent. Like you said, it’s work that takes real thinking. (Trigonometry, huh? Better you than me.) You aren’t doing the work because you enjoy it or just to feel that pride. You’re doing it because it needs to be done. We have to win this war. It’s the right thing to do, even if while doing it you have to do things that make you not sleep so well. And I’m sorrier than I can say that you’re over there doing it without me. But I’m also prouder than I can say of you and your talent and your brain and your strength.

You ask about what I see when I wake up in the morning. It’s a little frustrating to see the same old hotel room I’ve been seeing for more than a month now. I look out the window and see palm trees and blue skies, and I know I shouldn’t complain, but I’m getting a little tired of constant sunshine and cloudless skies. I sometimes wish it would just rain already. A nice cool gray day. It doesn’t feel like autumn’s coming. It’s like time isn’t passing at all.

And what do I see when I go to sleep at night? I don’t want to look at my hotel room, so I lie in bed in the dark and I think about when the war is won. Everyone will get to go home. We’ll go back to our place. It’s not much, but we’ve made it comfortable, haven’t we? You can take the longest hot bath in the world and then sleep for three days. Once you’re rested, I’ll cook you whatever you want. I’ve been filing away a lot of recipes, some I’ve heard about and some I’ve been thinking up on my own. We’ll have a regular Thanksgiving feast.

Take care, Buck.

Yours,  
Steve

Dear Bucky,

I hope that you and your buddies are doing well. I guess you all have been through a lot together by now. Are any of them from New York? Or maybe when you come home you’ll all come through there. I’d like to meet them. I feel like I know them a little from the things you’ve said.

We’re still cooling our heels in California. They’re talking about another movie for the lunkhead. Apparently the last one made enough money that they think it’ll be profitable. But I really hope they don’t do it. That would mean the girls wouldn’t have work, and most of the crew. I think we’d do better just heading out on the road again. There are plenty of cities we never visited.

There’s still no official word about the possible European tour. But they told the seamstress to get the costumes in order, to get them repaired and get extra fabric and things like that. And I helped a little with repairing some of the sets, so that’s a promising sign too. They sent Bill home though. He was happy to go. He’s got a wife and kids, and he was tired of talking just through letters. I know the feeling. Some of the girls think that Bill being sent away means that the Europe tour is off for good. I know three of them have given up and gone back home. But others think the brass just doesn’t want to endanger Bill’s life by taking him overseas and putting him on a stage in a Hitler costume in front of real soldiers! I don’t know what to think. It’s encouraging that they started the work on the costumes and the sets, which have been in storage for weeks. But I’m afraid to get my hopes up.

I spent an afternoon at the hospital again. I spent a little time reading to a kid who will probably end up blind. He told me about what happened to him. It seemed like he needed to talk about it to someone, you know? The least I could do was sit there and listen. He was so young. I bet he wasn’t even 20. The thing that sticks with me though was that he wasn’t complaining at all. He wasn’t worried for himself even though the doctors think he’ll never see again. All he wanted to talk about was how the blast that blinded him killed his buddy, who was right there next to him. It was terrible to hear, Buck. It was awful hearing him talk and thinking about you. I probably shouldn’t even tell you about it because you’ve probably seen worse. But it’s like I can’t help it. He couldn’t help telling me, and I can’t help telling you. It doesn’t seem like much to remember the kid’s buddy who died, but maybe it’s all we can do.

It’s been a little while since I heard from you. I know it’s rough, and the last thing I want to do is make you feel bad. But write when you can. I miss hearing from you, and I worry. I pray that you’re safe. I guess the weather’s getting colder over there, so I hope you’re staying warm. One of the crew fought in the last war, and he said that you need to eat more when it’s cold, especially when you’re sleeping on the ground. Did you know that? Just your body trying to stay warm burns up the energy a lot faster. So make sure you’re getting enough to eat.

I don’t have much news, so I’ll close now and get this in the mail. But I’ll write again soon. Take care. I miss you.

Steve

 

Dear Bucky,

I hope you are well and in good spirits. I hope to hear from you soon, though I know they are keeping you very busy with training. I wonder if you’ve headed out for that big push you talked about. If so, I hope when you get back and are reading this you will have a good meal and some well-deserved rest.

I’ve been busy for a change. After all that waiting around we had a burst of real work. Well, as much as the show can be called real work. Somebody had the bright idea of sending us around some of the cities here in California. Other than our few shows in Los Angeles, we hadn’t done any in this state, so we did shows in Bakersfield and Fresno and then went all the way up to San Francisco, which is really something.

I think you’d love San Francisco. Right now, it’s a city at war. That’s the only way to put it. I never thought about it back home, but here people are awfully aware of the fact that there’s nothing but the ocean between them and Japan. The number of soldiers and sailors and materials moving through this place—it’s incredible. It occurred to me that one extra guy might be able to slip by and get on a ship without anyone noticing. If there’d been any ships bound for Europe, I might have been tempted. I think maybe a little guy like me could hide in a shadow for just long enough to get there, then I could slip off the ship and find you. What do you think?

Anyway, underneath all the hustle and bustle, I can see that the city is a really interesting place too. Just the geography of it is surprising, all hills and valleys. Some of the streets are so steep or winding or both I don’t know how they drive cars up and down. And the Golden Gate Bridge is really amazing. We should definitely add it to the list of places to see on our trip later. It finally feels like fall here! After the endless sunshine, waking up to a really cool foggy morning is a great change. Maybe that sounds crazy to you.

We were scheduled for just two shows here, but they’ve added two more because of all the men there waiting to ship out who have nothing to do. The girls have more offers for dates than they know what to do with. I went with a couple of them to a dance hall, just to look out for them. I don’t think most of the fellas mean any harm, but they’re maybe feeling a little wild, what with anticipating what’s coming next. The girls laughed at me for playing chaperone, but they let me tag along.

So that’s my news. It was good to have something to do for a while. Even with the cooler weather here, I still can’t stop thinking about ice cream. I think about it all the time.

Take care of yourself, Buck. And write when you can.

Steve


	24. Bucky

Steve,

I do think your pictures look like Degas. Dugan agrees. Well. Actually what he said was, “Who the fuck is Degas?” And I said, “A real good artist,” and he said, “Oh, yeah, then, it looks like that.”

So you’ll have to make do with the opinion of an enthusiastic amateur in the realm of the visual arts because there ain’t no way I’m going to show your picture to Lt. Fischer who is about the only one versed enough in the Arts (oh Lord, is he ever) to. Oh wait, I tell a lie again. Actually Lou does know who Degas is. He said, I don’t know, looks like Marie Cassat to me. Well Hell, I didn’t know Lou liked art. Guess the opera should have been a clue. Lou is by the way from New JERSEY. I told you Lt. Fischer’s from Alabama and Billie is from New Hampshire. 

By the way I didn’t show the guys the pictures of the girls just of the seamstress, as you said, though in fact the dancers do look more like Degas to me. The portrait, Lou was probably right about.

I’m thinking a lot about what you said you see when you close your eyes at night. About Thanksgiving. I guess that is coming up, so it won’t be this year. But pal, let me tell you, I’ll look up sixteen different recipes for turkey stuffing when I do get home. And plan on stuffing my own self silly when we make it there too. And god damn. A hot bath. You sure do know me, what I like, and it’s about impossible to get a bath around here. And hell I know we don’t have much room in our apartment so I guess I’d let you use the same bathwater too punk, good and warm.

You’re right. It is getting colder here. We sleep all huddled up as many of us as can fit next to each other. So as a consequence I think less about ice cream these days. But I’m making sure I eat enough REAL, hot food.

I’m glad you at least have warm socks, punk. You were always so dumb about socks. So dumb. Sometimes I don’t even know why I try with you and then I remember oh right. Lots and lots of reasons. Which I won’t go into again right at the moment.

Anyhow. I think ice cream will come right back to me once the weather warms up again. Pretty sure of that. 

Yours,  
Bucky

P.S. Look, I have to say this, I’m not going to talk to you about the guys that get hurt okay? It’s not that I don’t want to tell you everything, it’s that I can’t

You SAID not to lie to you so I won’t. Anyone else but not you, but I just

It’s real good of you going to the hospital. It is REALLY good. though not if you whup their asses at poker like you do me. But I bet they appreciate it and they need that.

it’s just that sometimes if I stop mentioning a guy’s name, it’s that I just can’t talk about it, okay? Maybe later. Maybe I am superstitious. But I don’t want to talk about that with you I just don’t.

But by the way just getting hit with a little shrapnel doesn’t hurt much so that’s fine. And hell there’s a reason guys call snipers cowards I am so good at shooting that lots of times I’m so far away no one can shoot me back so I’m FINE. But just, I don’t want to write about that, if that’s okay with you.

P.P.S. I swear to God Steve if you sneak over here in a goddamn boat from San Francisco bringing the rest of the stupid in all of North America with you--I will--well I may leave you for the Germans is what I will do. Or I may let you _shoot_ yourself. Shoot yourself in the foot I mean. So you get sent right home. But I shouldn't joke. O my God Steve don't even joke about that. I know you're frustrated but come on pal. Save some stupid for me back home. Okay? Just simmer down. I miss you a lot too. My God Steve you have no idea. But I'd rather have that feeling of missing you, which is like a bit of a muscle cramp right in my chest--which is almost nice now--I would rather have that than the empty feeling in the pit of my stomach of having lost you, of seeing you gone, shot down in the Pacific Ocean trying to sneak over to Japan or God knows where you'd get on a freighter from San Francisco.


	25. Steve

Dear Bucky,

You had me laughing with your story about your Donald Duck galoshes, so I guess we’re even now that I’ve had a chance to laugh at you too. I imagine that is the kind of thing that would drive a guy crazy. One or two inconveniences or discomforts would be annoying, but I bet they add up and really get to you. I wish I could help. That certainly isn’t what they show in the movies. The lunkhead, for one, always runs into a scene looking well-fed and well-rested. His uniform is perfectly clean. It looks like he just stepped out of a bandbox. No mud and big galoshes for him. Though that might be an improvement, come to think of it. Let the Marx Brothers take a stab at the lunkhead.

I’m glad you liked my story about the Hollywood party. I wasn’t sure I should tell you about it at all. You’re right, I did blush. I was beet red the entire time I was there, until I escaped into the studio. I blushed writing you about it the first time. And yes, I’m blushing now. I wish you’d been there. Maybe someday I can tell you more, but not in a letter. It’ll have to be late at night after the lights are out so you can’t see me blush again. Like when we were kids and I would sleep over at your house and we’d stay up late, whispering in the dark so your ma didn’t scold us.

You doing Bob Hope, huh? Of course you run your mouth for your act. You’ve always been good at that. I sure wish I could be there to see it though. The way you told me about it, I felt like I was there, but I still wish I was there. I know it’s not romantic like movies or all action like funny books. I know that. But it still makes me crazy to be stuck here. You’re still there (thank God), and I’m still here. I keep telling myself it won’t always be that way. Sorry—I was trying to keep things cheerful. I'm really glad to hear you all have some fun over there. Sounds like a great bunch of guys. And I bet you could make a go at comedy. You are a charmer—you'd drive the dames crazy. 

I don’t really have much news though. There was more talk about about the show going to Europe, but I’m not holding my breath.

Maybe this will make you smile. I got my hands on a bunch of pulp novels and have been reading them non-stop. Reading them passes the time and makes me think of you. I took one to the beach the other day. I think I just sat there listening to the waves more than I was really reading, but it was kind of nice. I can sort of see why you like them though. There’s lot of adventure. But who writes these things? Some are better than others. I can see that. But I bet you could do worlds better. I could do your covers for you. I think I’d like that better than a fancy Hollywood job. Just you and me, writing and drawing. No one else to tell us what to do.

But now you’re telling me that you LIKE being told what to do. First you’re agreeing with me, telling me I’m right. And now this? Don’t tempt me, Buck. I’m only human. And the idea of you throwing things together in the kitchen. It makes me hungry. It makes me ravenous. I was about to write that you should stop, because that kind of talk is driving me crazy, but don’t stop, OK? Don’t ever stop.

Take care. I miss you.  
Steve

P.S. You can probably tell from my letter than I finally got that envelope you sent with my birthday present. I wonder if you can imagine the look on my face when I opened it up and read your P.S. Probably not—I know you’ve never seen that look on my face before. Geez, I don’t even know what to say. I like it. I really really like it.

P.P.S. I closed up the envelope after I wrote that and was all ready to send it out, but I had to rip it open so that I could make sure I let you know how much I like your present. I like it so much I guess I felt a little like celebrating. I pretended it was really was my birthday and had three ice cream sundaes. Can you imagine me lying there almost like I was drunk from all that sugar? That was just the first night. My appetite has really gotten bigger. I guess I’ve been having ice cream sundaes pretty regular since that night, and I have a lot of ideas about how I want to spend my birthday next year.

 

Dear Bucky,

Get ready for some good news. I had enough of the constant back and forth of the higher-ups. I had enough of pacing my cage. I don’t have a lot of weight to throw around, but I decided I’d at least give it a try. I’ve been on a one-man mission to get the show over there. I talked to everyone I could think of, more than once, and talked their ears off. I got an Army psychologist to write a letter about how much the USO shows boost morale. I got an accountant to show how it really won't cost all that much. I got everyone in the show I could get in touch with to write a letter saying they were ready, willing, and able to go overseas for a tour if it'll help the boys over there. I took all those papers around to show all the brass I already talked to, and I don't know if I wore them down or if it was already going to happen anyway, but they finally agreed!

It sounds like it might really happen, like they mean it this time. I probably won’t believe it until I’m standing on a boat, but it really sounds like it’s going to happen. It would be a smaller version of the show, which makes me worry for the girls and the crew. Only about half of them will be coming, and they haven’t said yet who’s going and who’s staying home. But I bet that’ll be just fine with you and the other guys over there! I’m sure we’ll hear no complaints, cause all the girls are great.

Some of it’s selfish, I know. I want to get over there and do something useful, though I know it isn’t much, and I want to see you, of course, so much. But it’s the right thing to do rather than all this waiting around. That isn’t doing anyone any good. And you said the fellas like the shows with chorus girls the best, right? The girls will knock ‘em dead, I promise. I’ve got one in particular in mind that I want to set you up with, because I think it’s a meeting that will really knock your socks off. So think about that until I get there.

I hate to even bring it up, but there’s one thing I really do need to ask about. You said that shrapnel doesn’t hurt much. What the hell does that mean? Were you hit? I’m sorry. You said you didn’t want to talk about it, but you can’t go and say a thing like that and not explain at least a little. I promise I won’t tell your mother or anyone else, but I can’t stand not knowing. Okay, enough about that.

So take care of yourself till I get there. Maybe we won’t have a real turkey dinner, but we might be together on Thanksgiving after all. But I’ll never again be able to sit at your mother’s table for Thanksgiving dinner without my face burning. You realize that, right?

Take care of yourself until I get there.  
Yours,  
Steve

P.S. I meant to tell you I really liked what you had to say about particular shades of blue. I got so carried away in my last letter talking about ice cream that I forgot all about that other part of your letter, though I liked it just as much in a different way. It was swell of you say it.

P.P.S. What the hell did you do to me with this birthday present? It’s hard to even write about it, but it’s like I can’t stop. . . .


	26. Bucky

Dear Steve,

Wow, I just got your letter about the birthday present. First of all I’m glad it got to you all right, that they let it through. It was pretty dirty and musta smelled up the postbox a bit! I can’t believe you had THREE ice cream sundaes for your birthday, punk. Three?? You sure must of made yourself sick and I don’t even feel sorry for you tho I suppose if I were there I’d have to be a good buddy and bring you something cool to drink and wipe off your sweating forehead and chest like a nurse or whatnot. You know, just to be a pal while you’re passing out on sugar. I know that rushes right to your head. You get all flushed and clammy and breathless even, what with your health. It’s _awful._ So yeah I definitely better take care of you next time.

Forget waiting until your next birthday for me try to match you on the ice cream by the way. I’m gonna be so starved when I see ya that even if it’s Thanksgiving or even if it's the middle of winter we’ll call it the Fourth of July. That’s patriotic, isn’t it? It'll be a Month of Sundaes when I see ya next. Ha ha! Get it?

But watch out. This time I might eat all the good whipped cream before you can get any. That’s just me looking out for ya really.

But yeah. I’m real glad you’re pushing for them to take your show over here if you do get to specifically where we are that would be so swell. Maybe the parachute silk will help you out for luck in that. You’re so determined I bet you’ll make it happen anyway and come and do a good show for the 107th.

I guess a lot of us guys send scraps home though just by the way. Billie Do sent home a dead bug. No kidding. He is an amateur entomologist or something like that. It was a ladybug but the opposite: instead of red with black spots, it was red with white. He found it on a leaf in one of the places we were. 

O and just so you know. Lou's our censor now he made corp. Hi Lou. You're a good fella you know. Even being from Jersey. 

You know something funny? Dugan sent home a little parachute silk to his wife Maude too. 

They’ve been married for fifteen years. Yes that’s right fifteen. He’s a little older than he looks Dugan. I asked him and he said, “Well, it’s just that whenever me and Maude have a fight the loser has to go take a long walk in the fresh air to cool off. As a consequence I’ve got lungs like bellows and legs like pistons!”

Seems like Dugan doesn’t run that house back home. And maybe he likes it that way. He said to me, “Barnes, you haven’t lived until you’ve seen how much marriage takes out of you.” But he likes it, I can tell: her bossing him. And I’m in a similar situation myself. You know. A little. Don’t even tell me about it.

I have to say that if me and a certain someone I know implemented the same policy of forced marches for the losing party after arguments I’d be mighty fit myself. But so might the other party who’s also known to make mistakes and for who a little fresh air has appeared to do some good. 

It sounds like you sure have seen the country, though. I can’t wait to go back over some of that ground with you. And describe to you some more of the things I’ve seen out here. I wasn’t kidding earlier, Steve: it really can be beautiful, like Old Masters paintings. 

XXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXXX

So I guess. You asked, didn’t you, about the shrapnel? And about other stuff. You want me to tell you everything. Okay, pal, here’s the thing. We get this speech all the time when we got mail call, the Captain says, “You don’t need to put everything you go through on your folks back home. Don’t give it to them to carry.” So, Steve, you know, I don’t know. You’re asking me for this but what you’re really asking is for me to hand off something on you and what are these letters, really? What hangs heavy sometimes is the stories, is the remembering that plays out in my head at night. But the stories go away if I don’t think about em, sort of. By writing them down I just make them more of a real burden to give to you. 

It’s like water in a shirt. You see if you can just hang on when your shirt gets real wet eventually the water will evaporate away into the clouds depending upon atmospheric conditions. But if you wring out the shirt out on the floor of your house well you got a big damn puddle in your house.

But we always did track water into our house, didn't we, Steve. Wet socks and you somehow dried em out on the stove anyhow. Even if it wasn't the best idea or the safest, you did. God I miss warm socks in the morning. So, you asked.

Sol’s dead, that’s what, Steve. It wasn’t a big thing even and I’ve seen other guys die but he was my friend I suppose I mean he was a part of our group. What happened is this: we were all getting shelled out of nowhere and we were dug in foxholes but the dirt it was all so wet from having been raining, remember when we were all marching in mud. BUT the thing was and here’s a bit of luck or just goddamn coincidence frankly: see the Heinies they got slave labor working on a lot of their shells and sometimes they don’t put in the detonating mechanism so the shells weren’t making their usual railroad roar they were just clanking down around us and then this silence. And then one did go off, boom, a wet kind of boom you know in the mud. So we all wait for the all clear and crawl out and we’re all just covered in mud and can barely tell who’s who under there. I start yelling out names, count off, Bletch, Cristallo, Donovan, Dugan--and then there’s Sol and for a second we thought he was just playing but we turned him over and he was gone. Dust to dust. Except mud and blood and both all just brownish. That’s what I remember. How we were all so covered in mud and blood that you could barely tell who was who or which was which. 

But I made it through. And you know something, Steve, I don’t want you to feel bad you weren’t there. What’s the point? Having spent so much time calculating bullet trajectories I have come to hold the opinion that it is better not to be anywhere near the range where they might find you. It’s not that you ain’t good enough, punk. It’s not. If anything it’s the opposite. I send you this dirty stuff and

Okay. I did get hit some with shrapnel once but most of us have, frankly. That’s just how it is. It was like getting a bit of gravel in your knee skinning it falling down cept in my back. You shouldda seen the other guy; I was fine.

I don’t know. Okay? I don’t know what’s what. All I know is this: I sent you home my lucky charm I think because I realized it wasn’t really the parachute silk that was my luck it was you. You’re like family you know that. And you always taking on guys bigger than you, I feel like we do that a lot here especially when it’s just me and Dugan out on a mission. And you always bounce back up. You beat the odds, and so do we. So you hold onto that punk. You scream into it if you hafta if you’re frustrated, or bite down real hard. Or do anything you gotta do but just remember this, I am so glad you’re there and alive. You’re my luck. You’ve got the best of me, you’ve got that scrap of parachute I sent, my luck. And I’m still here. I’m still HERE. 

Love,  
Bucky

Steve,

Just so you know we just got our marching orders and may be out of range for awhile so I’m sending this real quick. Happy Thanksgiving in advance. Keep those socks warm for me, kid.

With me when I go to sleep and when I rise up. With me all the time, punk. Til the end of the line. 

I’m still here.

Yours,

Bucky


	27. Steve

Dear Bucky,

It’s official! The show is coming over there! After months of talking in circles, somebody decided it was time, and in just a few days we’ve packed up and are on our way. I hardly let myself believe it until now, and I certainly didn’t want to tell you until I was absolutely sure. But I’m writing this on the train, heading back to New York, then we’ll get on a ship. I don’t know if I’m allowed to tell you where we’re going, but I’m really dying to see you, Buck. Just imagine it.

I hope you are well and that your unit has been successful. I hardly know what to say, other than take care of yourself. I don’t know where the tour will take us, and you said you won’t be able to get mail for a while, but maybe this letter will be there waiting for you when you get back. Maybe I’ll be waiting for you when you get back. I bet I can get there faster than any old sack of mail.

In the meantime, think of me and ice cream and warm socks and turkey (and blue silk) and keep your ears open in case I just have to run around the continent yelling your name until I find you. I have no idea where your unit is, but I’ll find you. I’ll fake sick. I'll sneak out in the dead of night. I’ll go AWOL. You know I’m stubborn—if there’s any way to get to you, I’ll figure it out. I’ll find you, Buck. Don’t doubt it.

Love,  
Steve

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [Strange Bunkmates](https://archiveofourown.org/works/5101469) by [Lena7142](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lena7142/pseuds/Lena7142), [Scappodaqui](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Scappodaqui/pseuds/Scappodaqui), [tinzelda](https://archiveofourown.org/users/tinzelda/pseuds/tinzelda)




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